Chapter Eighteen.Wherein are described an Assault, a Furious Fight, and some Strange Personal Encounters.It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when Captain Lacey and his company resumed their place in the square.About that time an officer of the Berkshire Regiment represented the condition of his men as requiring attention. They certainly did require it, for they had been without food since four o’clock that morning, and were consequently in urgent need of provender as well as rest and water—the last having been all consumed.As it was imperative that the work should go on, it was found necessary to serve out food by wings.Accordingly, the men of one half-battalion received rations and water, and were then sent to their zereba with the Gardner guns, while the other half, still lying in reserve by their piled arms, received their rations.The marines also sat down for brief rest and refreshment. Among them was our sedate friend Stevenson, who invariably carried his small Bible with him in all his campaigns. After quickly consuming his allowance, and while waiting for water, he sat down to read a few verses of the 23rd Psalm,—for Stevenson was one of those quiet, fearless men who cannot be laughed out of doing right, and who have no fear of the face of man, whether scowling in anger or sneering in contempt.“Hallo, Tom!” said a light-hearted comrade near him, “this is a queer time to be readin’ your Bible. We’ll be havin’ you sayin’ your prayers next!”“I’ve saidthemalready, Fred,” replied the marine, replacing the book in his pouch. “As you say, itisa queer time to be readin’ the Word, but not an unsuitable time, for this may be the last chance that you and I will ever have of readin’ it. Our next orders may be to meet God face to face.”Stevenson was yet speaking when a Lancer was seen approaching at a wild gallop. He dashed up to the generals and informed them that the enemy was gathering in front.The message was barely delivered when another Lancer rode up and reported the enemy close at hand.The order, “Stand to your arms!” was promptly given and as promptly obeyed, without flurry or disorder.Next minute a wild uproar was heard, and the Lancers were seen galloping towards the square with thousands of the swarthy warriors of the desert at their heels—nay, even mixed up with them!On they came, a dark, frantic, yelling host, with irresistible fury, and, perchance, patriotism! Shall we deny to those men what we claim for ourselves—love of hearth and home, of country, of freedom? Can we not sympathise with men who groaned under an insolent and tyrannical yoke, and who, failing to understand or appreciate the purity of the motives by which we British were actuated, could see nothing in us except the supporters of their enemies?They hurled themselves on that part of the large zereba which was defended by the Bengal Native Infantry. These fired a volley, but failed to check the impetuous rush. Everything went down before the savages, and the Native Infantry broke and fled, throwing into dire confusion the transport animals which stood in their immediate rear.General McNeill himself dashed in among the panic-stricken men and sought to arrest them. He succeeded for a time in rallying some of them in Number 1 zereba, but another rush of the Arabs sent them flying a second time, and some of the enemy got into the square, it is said, to the number of 112. The Berkshire men, however, stood fast, and not a soul who got into that square ever got out of it alive. In this wretched affair the 17th Bengal Native Infantry lost their brave commander. He was killed while trying to rally them.The confusion was now increased by the enemy driving the baggage-animals hither and thither, especially on to another half-battalion square of the Berkshire Regiment. Here, however, they were effectually checked. As the Atlantic billows burst in impotent turmoil on the cliffs of Cornwall, so the enemy fell upon and were hurled back by the steadfast Berkshire Regiment, which scarcely lost a man, while over two hundred of their opponents lay dead around them.The Bombay Regiment also stood fast, and redeemed, to some extent, the credit of their country; while the Sikhs, as might have been expected of them, never flinched for a moment, but strewed the plain around them with dead and dying men.There was horrible carnage for some time—unflinching valour being opposed to desperate courage; and while a burning sense of injury, with a resolve to conquer or die, was the motive power, no doubt, on one side, on the other there was the high sense of duty to Queen and country, and the pride of historical renown.Owing to the suddenness of the attack, and the occupation of the troops at the moment, there was some mixing up of men of different regiments. One company of Sikhs, who were helping to unload the camels when the fight began, having been prevented from joining their own regiment, cast in their lot with the marines. The better to help their European comrades these vigorous fellows leaped outside the zereba and lay down in front of it, and the two bodies together gave the charging foe such a warm reception that they never got within twenty yards of them.But there was a fearful scene of butchery among the baggage-animals, and many unequal hand-to-hand conflicts. There was terrible slaughter also among the working parties that had gone out to cut bushes with which to finish the zerebas, with coats off and away from their arms. Some individuals of the marines, who, as a body, suffered severely, were surrounded by a dozen Arabs, and their bodies were afterwards found covered with spear-wounds. This was the case with a sergeant named Mitchel, who had charge of a wood-cutting party and had been quietly chatting with our friend Stevenson just before the attack. Another case was that of Private Stanton, who had been through the Egyptian campaign of 1882, had fought at Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, El-Teb, and Tamai. When this expedition of which we write was arranged, he was one of the first to volunteer. He chanced to be outside the zereba when the attack was made, and failed to appear at muster. Next day he was found dead, with many spear-wounds, at some distance from the force. Poor fellow! he had not been killed outright, and had attempted to crawl towards the zerebas, but in his confusion had crept away in the wrong direction, and had slowly bled to death on the sands of the desert.During the rapid progress of this terrible scene of bloodshed, Miles and his friend Armstrong stood and fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank at their allotted corner of the square—chiefly with bullet, but also, on several occasions, with bayonet, when the rush of the enemy threatened to break through all barriers, and drive in the line of defenders. They would certainly have succeeded, had these defenders been less powerful and resolute.“Well done!” exclaimed a deep bass voice, in evident enthusiasm, close to Miles.The latter glanced round. It was the voice of his friend Jack Molloy, who helped to work the Gardner gun, and who was at the moment admiring the daring act of an officer of Sikhs.Two men of the Berkshire Regiment, who had been employed outside the zereba, were pursued by several Arabs, and it was evident that their death was almost certain, when the Sikh officer referred to rushed out to the rescue, sprang between the men and their pursuers, killed three of the latter in succession with three rapid sword-cuts, and enabled the soldiers to escape, besides which, he checked the rush at that part of the square, and returned to his post in safety.The cheer of the Berkshire men and others who witnessed this feat was heard to rise above even the yells of combatants, the shrieks of the wounded, the rattle and crash of fire-arms, and the general turmoil and din of war.In one of the working parties that were out when the assault began was our friend Moses Pyne and his comrade Rattling Bill Simkin. These had been separated from the rest of their party when the first wild rush was made by the foe. The formation of the ground favoured their dropping into a place of concealment, thus for the moment saving them from the fate of being surrounded and cut to pieces, like too many of their straggling comrades. For a few seconds they lay close while the enemy rushed past like a torrent, to the assault just described.Then Moses uprose, with an expression of stern resolve on his usually meek countenance.“Simkin,” he said, as his comrade also got up, “I’m not goin’ to lie hidin’ here while our boys are engaged wi’ the savages.”“No more am I, Moses,” returned Rattling Bill, with something of the jovially reckless air still lingering on his solemnised visage. “But we’ve not much chance of getting back to the zerebas without arms.”“What d’ee callthat?” asked Moses, holding out his chopper.“A very good weapon to fight the bush with,” answered Simkin, “but not worth much against Arab spears. However, comrade, choppers are all we have got, so we must make the most of ’em. They say a good workman can work with any tools. What d’ee propose to try? I’ll put myself under your orders, Moses; for, although you are a meekish sort of a fellow, I really believe you have a better headpiece than most of us.”“I propose that we simply go at ’em,” said Moses. “Take ’em in rear, cut our way through, and get into the zereba—that’s all. It don’t take much of a headpiece to think that out.”“Go ahead, then! I’ll back you,” said Rattling Bill, without the least touch of bravado, as he bared his right arm to the shoulder. Both men were in shirts and trousers, with sleeves tucked up and their brawny arms exposed—Arabesquely brown up to the elbow, and infantinely white above that!The intended rush might have been successful, but for a change in the tactics of the enemy. Seeing that they were severely repulsed at the corner of the square, where Molloy and his tars worked the Gardner gun, while Miles and his comrades plied bullet and bayonet, the Arab chief sent a body of his followers to reinforce this point. It was just at the moment that Moses and Simkin made the dash from their place of concealment, so that they actually leaped, without having intended it, into the very midst of the reinforcements!Two of the Arabs went down before the choppers instantly, and the others—almost panic-stricken by the suddenness and severity of the assault—turned to fly, supposing, no doubt, that an ambush had caught them. But seeing only two men they ran back, and would certainly have made short work of them if rescuers had not come up.And at this point in the fight there was exhibited a curious instance of the power of friendship to render steady men reckless. The incident we have just described was witnessed by the troops, for, the moment the two soldiers left their place of concealment they were in full view of the large zereba.“That’s Moses!” exclaimed Armstrong excitedly.Without a moment’s hesitation he sprang over the defence-works and ran to the rescue, clubbing his rifle as he went and felling two Arabs therewith.“You shan’t die alone, Willie!” muttered our hero, as he also leaped the fence and followed his friend, just in time to save him from three Arabs who made at him simultaneously. Two of these Miles knocked down; his comrade felled the other. Then they turned back to back; Moses and Simkin did the same, and thus formed a littleimprompturallying square. This delayed the catastrophe, which seemed, however, inevitable. The brave little quartette, being surrounded by foes, could do nothing but parry with almost lightning speed the spear-thrusts that were made at them continually.Seeing this, the heart of Jack Molloy bounded within him, and friendship for the moment overcame the sense of duty.“You can only die once, Jack!” he exclaimed, drew his cutlass, leaped out of the zereba, and went at the foe with a thunderous roar, which, for a moment, actually made them quail.Infected with a similar spirit, Stevenson, the marine, also lost his head, if we may say so. Resolving to run a-muck for friendship’s sake, he followed the sailor, and increased the rallying square to five, while Molloy skirmished round it, parrying spear-thrusts, at once with left arm and cutlass, in quite a miraculous manner, roaring all the time like an infuriated lion, and causing the enemy to give back in horror wherever he made a rush.A root, however, tripped him up at last, and he fell forward headlong to the ground. A dozen spears were pointed at his broad back, when a tall majestic Arab sprang forward and held up one hand, while with the other he waved a sword.At that moment a strong force of the enemy came down with an impetuous rush on that corner of the zereba, and, coming between it and the little knot of combatants, hid them from view.The attack at this point was very determined, and for a few moments the issue seemed doubtful, for although the enemy fell in heaps they came on in such numbers that the defenders were almost overwhelmed. Steadiness, however, combined with indomitable courage, prevailed. Everywhere they were repulsed with tremendous loss. Many instances of personal bravery occurred, of course, besides those we have described, but we may not pause to enumerate these. Tenacity of life, also, was curiously exhibited in the case of some of the desperately wounded.One man in charge of two mules outside the zereba was trying to bring them in when he was attacked, and received three terrible spear-wounds in the back and one in the arm, which cut all the muscles and sinews. Yet this man ultimately recovered, though, of course, with the loss of his arm.Another man lost a leg and an arm, and was badly wounded in the other leg and in the hand, and, lastly, he was shot in the jaw. After being operated on, and having his wounds dressed, the doctor asked him how he felt.“All right, sir,” he answered. “They’ve crippled me in arms and legs, and they’ve broke my jaw, but, thank God, they have not broke my heart yet!”It was eight minutes to three when the Arabs made their first rush, and it was just ten minutes past three when the enemy was finally repelled and the bugle sounded “Cease firing.” Yet into these pregnant eighteen minutes all that we have described, and a vast deal more, was crowded. Nearly four hundred of our men were killed and wounded, while the enemy, it is believed, lost over two thousand.It is said by those who were present at the engagement that the officers of the 17th Bengal Infantry were heard to say that if their men had not given way, there would have been no “disaster” at all, and General McNeill instead of being accused of permitting himself to be surprised, would have got credit for a heroic defence against overwhelming odds. If he had carried out his instructions, and pressed on to the end of eight miles, instead of prudently halting when he did, there can be no doubt that the force would have been surprised and absolutely cut to pieces.
It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when Captain Lacey and his company resumed their place in the square.
About that time an officer of the Berkshire Regiment represented the condition of his men as requiring attention. They certainly did require it, for they had been without food since four o’clock that morning, and were consequently in urgent need of provender as well as rest and water—the last having been all consumed.
As it was imperative that the work should go on, it was found necessary to serve out food by wings.
Accordingly, the men of one half-battalion received rations and water, and were then sent to their zereba with the Gardner guns, while the other half, still lying in reserve by their piled arms, received their rations.
The marines also sat down for brief rest and refreshment. Among them was our sedate friend Stevenson, who invariably carried his small Bible with him in all his campaigns. After quickly consuming his allowance, and while waiting for water, he sat down to read a few verses of the 23rd Psalm,—for Stevenson was one of those quiet, fearless men who cannot be laughed out of doing right, and who have no fear of the face of man, whether scowling in anger or sneering in contempt.
“Hallo, Tom!” said a light-hearted comrade near him, “this is a queer time to be readin’ your Bible. We’ll be havin’ you sayin’ your prayers next!”
“I’ve saidthemalready, Fred,” replied the marine, replacing the book in his pouch. “As you say, itisa queer time to be readin’ the Word, but not an unsuitable time, for this may be the last chance that you and I will ever have of readin’ it. Our next orders may be to meet God face to face.”
Stevenson was yet speaking when a Lancer was seen approaching at a wild gallop. He dashed up to the generals and informed them that the enemy was gathering in front.
The message was barely delivered when another Lancer rode up and reported the enemy close at hand.
The order, “Stand to your arms!” was promptly given and as promptly obeyed, without flurry or disorder.
Next minute a wild uproar was heard, and the Lancers were seen galloping towards the square with thousands of the swarthy warriors of the desert at their heels—nay, even mixed up with them!
On they came, a dark, frantic, yelling host, with irresistible fury, and, perchance, patriotism! Shall we deny to those men what we claim for ourselves—love of hearth and home, of country, of freedom? Can we not sympathise with men who groaned under an insolent and tyrannical yoke, and who, failing to understand or appreciate the purity of the motives by which we British were actuated, could see nothing in us except the supporters of their enemies?
They hurled themselves on that part of the large zereba which was defended by the Bengal Native Infantry. These fired a volley, but failed to check the impetuous rush. Everything went down before the savages, and the Native Infantry broke and fled, throwing into dire confusion the transport animals which stood in their immediate rear.
General McNeill himself dashed in among the panic-stricken men and sought to arrest them. He succeeded for a time in rallying some of them in Number 1 zereba, but another rush of the Arabs sent them flying a second time, and some of the enemy got into the square, it is said, to the number of 112. The Berkshire men, however, stood fast, and not a soul who got into that square ever got out of it alive. In this wretched affair the 17th Bengal Native Infantry lost their brave commander. He was killed while trying to rally them.
The confusion was now increased by the enemy driving the baggage-animals hither and thither, especially on to another half-battalion square of the Berkshire Regiment. Here, however, they were effectually checked. As the Atlantic billows burst in impotent turmoil on the cliffs of Cornwall, so the enemy fell upon and were hurled back by the steadfast Berkshire Regiment, which scarcely lost a man, while over two hundred of their opponents lay dead around them.
The Bombay Regiment also stood fast, and redeemed, to some extent, the credit of their country; while the Sikhs, as might have been expected of them, never flinched for a moment, but strewed the plain around them with dead and dying men.
There was horrible carnage for some time—unflinching valour being opposed to desperate courage; and while a burning sense of injury, with a resolve to conquer or die, was the motive power, no doubt, on one side, on the other there was the high sense of duty to Queen and country, and the pride of historical renown.
Owing to the suddenness of the attack, and the occupation of the troops at the moment, there was some mixing up of men of different regiments. One company of Sikhs, who were helping to unload the camels when the fight began, having been prevented from joining their own regiment, cast in their lot with the marines. The better to help their European comrades these vigorous fellows leaped outside the zereba and lay down in front of it, and the two bodies together gave the charging foe such a warm reception that they never got within twenty yards of them.
But there was a fearful scene of butchery among the baggage-animals, and many unequal hand-to-hand conflicts. There was terrible slaughter also among the working parties that had gone out to cut bushes with which to finish the zerebas, with coats off and away from their arms. Some individuals of the marines, who, as a body, suffered severely, were surrounded by a dozen Arabs, and their bodies were afterwards found covered with spear-wounds. This was the case with a sergeant named Mitchel, who had charge of a wood-cutting party and had been quietly chatting with our friend Stevenson just before the attack. Another case was that of Private Stanton, who had been through the Egyptian campaign of 1882, had fought at Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, El-Teb, and Tamai. When this expedition of which we write was arranged, he was one of the first to volunteer. He chanced to be outside the zereba when the attack was made, and failed to appear at muster. Next day he was found dead, with many spear-wounds, at some distance from the force. Poor fellow! he had not been killed outright, and had attempted to crawl towards the zerebas, but in his confusion had crept away in the wrong direction, and had slowly bled to death on the sands of the desert.
During the rapid progress of this terrible scene of bloodshed, Miles and his friend Armstrong stood and fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank at their allotted corner of the square—chiefly with bullet, but also, on several occasions, with bayonet, when the rush of the enemy threatened to break through all barriers, and drive in the line of defenders. They would certainly have succeeded, had these defenders been less powerful and resolute.
“Well done!” exclaimed a deep bass voice, in evident enthusiasm, close to Miles.
The latter glanced round. It was the voice of his friend Jack Molloy, who helped to work the Gardner gun, and who was at the moment admiring the daring act of an officer of Sikhs.
Two men of the Berkshire Regiment, who had been employed outside the zereba, were pursued by several Arabs, and it was evident that their death was almost certain, when the Sikh officer referred to rushed out to the rescue, sprang between the men and their pursuers, killed three of the latter in succession with three rapid sword-cuts, and enabled the soldiers to escape, besides which, he checked the rush at that part of the square, and returned to his post in safety.
The cheer of the Berkshire men and others who witnessed this feat was heard to rise above even the yells of combatants, the shrieks of the wounded, the rattle and crash of fire-arms, and the general turmoil and din of war.
In one of the working parties that were out when the assault began was our friend Moses Pyne and his comrade Rattling Bill Simkin. These had been separated from the rest of their party when the first wild rush was made by the foe. The formation of the ground favoured their dropping into a place of concealment, thus for the moment saving them from the fate of being surrounded and cut to pieces, like too many of their straggling comrades. For a few seconds they lay close while the enemy rushed past like a torrent, to the assault just described.
Then Moses uprose, with an expression of stern resolve on his usually meek countenance.
“Simkin,” he said, as his comrade also got up, “I’m not goin’ to lie hidin’ here while our boys are engaged wi’ the savages.”
“No more am I, Moses,” returned Rattling Bill, with something of the jovially reckless air still lingering on his solemnised visage. “But we’ve not much chance of getting back to the zerebas without arms.”
“What d’ee callthat?” asked Moses, holding out his chopper.
“A very good weapon to fight the bush with,” answered Simkin, “but not worth much against Arab spears. However, comrade, choppers are all we have got, so we must make the most of ’em. They say a good workman can work with any tools. What d’ee propose to try? I’ll put myself under your orders, Moses; for, although you are a meekish sort of a fellow, I really believe you have a better headpiece than most of us.”
“I propose that we simply go at ’em,” said Moses. “Take ’em in rear, cut our way through, and get into the zereba—that’s all. It don’t take much of a headpiece to think that out.”
“Go ahead, then! I’ll back you,” said Rattling Bill, without the least touch of bravado, as he bared his right arm to the shoulder. Both men were in shirts and trousers, with sleeves tucked up and their brawny arms exposed—Arabesquely brown up to the elbow, and infantinely white above that!
The intended rush might have been successful, but for a change in the tactics of the enemy. Seeing that they were severely repulsed at the corner of the square, where Molloy and his tars worked the Gardner gun, while Miles and his comrades plied bullet and bayonet, the Arab chief sent a body of his followers to reinforce this point. It was just at the moment that Moses and Simkin made the dash from their place of concealment, so that they actually leaped, without having intended it, into the very midst of the reinforcements!
Two of the Arabs went down before the choppers instantly, and the others—almost panic-stricken by the suddenness and severity of the assault—turned to fly, supposing, no doubt, that an ambush had caught them. But seeing only two men they ran back, and would certainly have made short work of them if rescuers had not come up.
And at this point in the fight there was exhibited a curious instance of the power of friendship to render steady men reckless. The incident we have just described was witnessed by the troops, for, the moment the two soldiers left their place of concealment they were in full view of the large zereba.
“That’s Moses!” exclaimed Armstrong excitedly.
Without a moment’s hesitation he sprang over the defence-works and ran to the rescue, clubbing his rifle as he went and felling two Arabs therewith.
“You shan’t die alone, Willie!” muttered our hero, as he also leaped the fence and followed his friend, just in time to save him from three Arabs who made at him simultaneously. Two of these Miles knocked down; his comrade felled the other. Then they turned back to back; Moses and Simkin did the same, and thus formed a littleimprompturallying square. This delayed the catastrophe, which seemed, however, inevitable. The brave little quartette, being surrounded by foes, could do nothing but parry with almost lightning speed the spear-thrusts that were made at them continually.
Seeing this, the heart of Jack Molloy bounded within him, and friendship for the moment overcame the sense of duty.
“You can only die once, Jack!” he exclaimed, drew his cutlass, leaped out of the zereba, and went at the foe with a thunderous roar, which, for a moment, actually made them quail.
Infected with a similar spirit, Stevenson, the marine, also lost his head, if we may say so. Resolving to run a-muck for friendship’s sake, he followed the sailor, and increased the rallying square to five, while Molloy skirmished round it, parrying spear-thrusts, at once with left arm and cutlass, in quite a miraculous manner, roaring all the time like an infuriated lion, and causing the enemy to give back in horror wherever he made a rush.
A root, however, tripped him up at last, and he fell forward headlong to the ground. A dozen spears were pointed at his broad back, when a tall majestic Arab sprang forward and held up one hand, while with the other he waved a sword.
At that moment a strong force of the enemy came down with an impetuous rush on that corner of the zereba, and, coming between it and the little knot of combatants, hid them from view.
The attack at this point was very determined, and for a few moments the issue seemed doubtful, for although the enemy fell in heaps they came on in such numbers that the defenders were almost overwhelmed. Steadiness, however, combined with indomitable courage, prevailed. Everywhere they were repulsed with tremendous loss. Many instances of personal bravery occurred, of course, besides those we have described, but we may not pause to enumerate these. Tenacity of life, also, was curiously exhibited in the case of some of the desperately wounded.
One man in charge of two mules outside the zereba was trying to bring them in when he was attacked, and received three terrible spear-wounds in the back and one in the arm, which cut all the muscles and sinews. Yet this man ultimately recovered, though, of course, with the loss of his arm.
Another man lost a leg and an arm, and was badly wounded in the other leg and in the hand, and, lastly, he was shot in the jaw. After being operated on, and having his wounds dressed, the doctor asked him how he felt.
“All right, sir,” he answered. “They’ve crippled me in arms and legs, and they’ve broke my jaw, but, thank God, they have not broke my heart yet!”
It was eight minutes to three when the Arabs made their first rush, and it was just ten minutes past three when the enemy was finally repelled and the bugle sounded “Cease firing.” Yet into these pregnant eighteen minutes all that we have described, and a vast deal more, was crowded. Nearly four hundred of our men were killed and wounded, while the enemy, it is believed, lost over two thousand.
It is said by those who were present at the engagement that the officers of the 17th Bengal Infantry were heard to say that if their men had not given way, there would have been no “disaster” at all, and General McNeill instead of being accused of permitting himself to be surprised, would have got credit for a heroic defence against overwhelming odds. If he had carried out his instructions, and pressed on to the end of eight miles, instead of prudently halting when he did, there can be no doubt that the force would have been surprised and absolutely cut to pieces.
Chapter Nineteen.Refers to Sergeant Hardy, Amytoor-Lawyer Sutherland, and other Matters.Among the wounded in the great fight which we have just described was Hardy the sergeant.His position at the time the Arabs broke into the square was close to the right flank of the Indian Native Regiment, which gave way, so that it was he and a number of the flank men of his company who had to do most of the hand-to-hand fighting necessary to repair the disaster and drive back the enemy. Of course every soldier engaged in that part of the fight was, for a time, almost overwhelmed in the confusion, and many of them were surrounded and severely wounded.When the Native Infantry broke, Hardy’s captain sprang to the front, sword in hand, and cut down two of the foe. As he did so, he was, for a moment, separated from his company and surrounded. A powerful Arab was on the point of thrusting his spear into the captain’s back when Hardy observed his danger, bayoneted the Arab, and saved the officer. But it was almost at the cost of his own life, for another Arab, with whom he had been fighting at the moment, took advantage of the opportunity to thrust his spear into the chest of the sergeant, who fell, as was thought, mortally wounded.This, however, was not the case, for when the fight was over, his wound, although dangerous, was not supposed to be fatal, and he went into hospital on returning to Suakim. He was a Blue Light, and his temperance habits told in his favour. So did his religion, for the calm equanimity with which he submitted to the will of God, and bore his sufferings, went far to assist the doctor in grappling with his wound. But his religion did more than that, for when he thought of the heaven that awaited him, if he should die, and of being “for ever with the Lord,” his heart was filled with joy; and joy not only “does not kill,”—it is absolutely a source of life. In the sergeant’s case it formed an important factor in restoring him to partial health.One evening, some time after the battle of McNeill’s zereba, Sutherland and Gaspard Redgrave were seated beside the sergeant’s bed—cheering him up a bit, as they said—and chatting about the details of the recent fight. Once or twice the sergeant had tried to lead the conversation to religious subjects, but without success, for neither Sutherland nor Gaspard were seriously disposed, and both fought shy of such matters.“Well, it’s very kind of you to come an’ cheer me up, lads,” said Hardy at last; “and I hope I may live to do the same for you, if either of you ever gets knocked over. Now, I want each of you to do me a favour. Will you promise?”“Of course we will,” said Gaspard quickly.“If we can,” said the more cautious Scot.“Well, then, Gaspard, will you sing me a song? I think it would do me good.”“With the greatest pleasure,” answered the soldier; “but,” he added, looking round doubtfully, “I don’t know how they might like it here.”“They’ll not object; besides, you can sing low. You’ve got the knack of singin’ soft—better than any man I ever heard.”“Well, what shall it be?” returned the gratified Gaspard.“One of Sankey’s hymns,” said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his pillow and gave it to his friend.Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to fulfil his promise.“Sing Number 68, ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ I’m very fond of that hymn.”In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was heard more than one “Amen” and “Thank God” from the neighbouring beds.“Yes, comrades, we shall gather there,” said the sergeant, after a brief pause, “for the same Almighty Saviour who savedmedied foryouas well. I ain’t used to wettin’ my cheeks, asyouknow, lads, but I s’pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I have to ask of—”“If ye’re thinkin’ o’ askin’ me to pray,” broke in the alarmed Scotsman, “ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, ‘if Ican.’ Noo, I cannotpray, an’ it’s nae use askin’ me to try. Whatever I may come to in this warld, I’ll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin’ man.”“Quite right, Sutherland—quite right. I had no intention of asking you to pray,” replied Hardy, with a faint smile. “What I want you to do is to draw out my will for me.”“Oh! I’m quite willin’ to do that,” returned the relieved Scot.“You see,” continued the sergeant, “one never knows what may be the result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I possess to go in the right direction.”“That’s a wise-like sentiment,” returned his friend, with an approving nod and thoughtful frown.“Now, as you write a capital hand, and know how to express yourself on paper,” continued Hardy, “it strikes me that you will do the job better than any one else; and, being a friend, I feel that I can talk freely to you on my private affairs. So you’ll help me?”“I’m wullin’ to try, serjint, and ac’ the legal adviser—amytoor-like, ye ken.”“Thank you. Can you come to-morrow morning?”“No, serjint, I canna, because I’ve to start airly the morn’s mornin’ wi’ a pairty to meet the Scots Gairds comin’ back frae Tamai, but the moment I come back I’ll come to ye.”“That will do—thank you. And now, Gaspard, what’s the news from England? I hear that a mail has just come in.”“News that will make your blood boil,” said Gaspard sternly.“It would take a good deal of powerful news to boil the little blood that is left in me,” said Hardy, languidly.“Well, I don’t know. Anyhow it makes mine boil. What d’you think of McNeill’s brave defence being represented in the papers as a disaster?”“You don’t mean that!”“Indeed I do. They say that it was a disaster! whereas it was a splendid defence under singularly adverse circumstances! They say that General McNeill permitted himself to be surprised! If he had tried to carry out his instructions to the full extent, it would indeed have been such a surprise that the surprising thing would have been if a single man of us had returned alive to tell the tale—as you and I know full well. The truth is, it was the fault of the Intelligence Department that nearly wrecked us, and it was McNeill’s prudence and our pluck that saved us, and yet these quill-drivers at home—bah!”The soldier rose in hot indignation and strode from the room.“He’s a wee thing roosed!” remarked Sutherland, with a good-humoured yet slightly cynical grin. “But guid-nicht to ye, ma man. Keep up hert an’ I’ll come an’ draft yer wull i’ the mornin’.”So saying the “amytoor” lawyer took his departure, and was soon tramping over the desert sands with a band of his comrades.They were not, however, permitted to tramp in peace, for their indefatigable foe hung on their skirts and annoyed them the greater part of the way. Toward evening they met the Guards, and as it was too late to return to Suakim the force bivouacked in McNeill’s deserted zereba, surrounded by graves and scarcely buried corpses.Only those who were there can fully understand what that meant. All round the zereba, and for three miles on the Suakim side of it, the ground was strewn thickly with the graves of Europeans, Indians, and Arabs, and so shallow were these that from each of them there oozed a dark, dreadful stain. To add to the horrors of the scene, portions of mangled and putrefying corpses protruded from many of them—ghastly skulls, from the sockets of which the eyes had been picked by vultures and other obscene birds. Limbs of brave men upon which the hyena had already begun his dreadful work, and half-skeleton hands, with fingers spread and bent as if still clutching the foe in death-agony, protruded above the surface; mixed with these, and unburied, were the putrefying carcases of camels and mules—the whole filling the air with a horrible stench, and the soul with a fearful loathing, which ordinary language is powerless to describe, and the inexperienced imagination cannot conceive.Oh! it is terrible to think that from the Fall till now man has gone on continually producing and reproducing scenes like this—sometimes, no doubt, unavoidably; but often, too often, because of some trifling error, or insult, on the part of statesmen, or some paltry dispute about a boundary, or, not infrequently, on grounds so shadowy and complex that succeeding historians have found it almost impossible to convey the meaning thereof to the intellects of average men!Amid these dreadful memorials of the recent fight the party bivouacked!Next day the troops returned to Suakim, and Sutherland, after breakfast, and what he called a wash-up, went to see his friend Sergeant Hardy, with pen, ink, and paper.“Weel, serjint, hoo are ye the day?”“Pretty well, thank you—pretty well. Ah! Sutherland, I have been thinking what an important thing it is for men to come to Jesus for salvation while in their health and strength; for now, instead of being anxious about my soul, as so many are when the end approaches, I am rejoicing in the thought of soon meeting God—my Father! Sutherland, my good fellow, it is foolish as well as wrong to think only of this life. Of all men in the world we soldiers ought to know this.”The sergeant spoke so earnestly, and his eyes withal looked so solemnly from their sunken sockets, that his friend could not help being impressed.“I believe ye’re no’ far wrang, serjint, an’ I tak’ shame to mysel’ that I’ve been sic a harum-scarum sinner up to this time.”Sutherland said this with a look so honest that Hardy was moved to put out his large wasted hand and grasp that of his friend.“Comrade,” he said, “God is waiting to be gracious. Jesus is ever ready and willing to save.”Sutherland returned the pressure but made no reply; and Hardy, praying for a blessing on the little that had been said, changed the subject by saying—“You have brought paper and ink, I see.”“Ay, but, man, ye mauna be speakin’ o’ takin’ yer depairture yet. This draftin’ o’ yer wull is only a precaution.”“Quite right, lad. I mean it only as a precaution,” returned Hardy, in a cheerful tone. “But you seem to have caught a cold—eh? What makes you cough and clear your throat so?”“A cauld! I wush it was only a cauld! Man, it’s the stink o’ thae corps that I canna get oot o’ my nose an’ thrapple.”Hereupon Sutherland, by way of entertaining his invalid friend, launched out into a graphic account of the scene he had so recently witnessed at McNeill’s zereba. When that subject was exhausted, he arranged his writing materials and began with all the solemnity of a lawyer.“Noo, serjeant, what div ye want me to pit doon?”“Well, I must explain first that I have very little to leave, and no one to leave it to.”“What! Nae frien’s ava?”“Not one. I have neither wife nor child, brother nor sister. I have indeed one old cousin, but he is rich, and would not be benefited by my poor little possessions; besides, he’s a cross-grained old fellow, and does not deserve anything, even though I had something worth leaving. However, I bear him no ill-will, poor man, only I don’t want what I do leave to go to him, which it would if I were to die without a will; because, of course, he is my natural heir, and—”“Haud ye there, man,” said the Scot abruptly but slowly. “If he’s your nait’ral heir, ye’rehisnait’ral heir tae, ye ken.”“Of course, I am aware of that,” returned the sergeant with an amused look; “but the old man is eccentric, and has always boasted that he means to leave his wealth to some charity. Indeed, I know that he has already made his will, leaving his money to build an hospital—for incurables of some sort, I believe.”“Ma certy! If I was his lawyer,” said Sutherland, with ineffable scorn, “I wad advise him to erec’ an hospital in his lifetime for incurable eediots, an’ to gang in himsel’ as the first patient. But, come awa wi’ yer wull, serjint.”“Get ready, then, my lawyer, and see that you put it down all ship-shape, as poor Molloy would have said.”“Oh, ye needna fear,” said the Scot, “I’m no’ sic an ass as to trust to my ain legal knowledge. But jist you say what ye want an’ I’ll pit it doon, and then write it into a form in the reg’lar way.”After mentioning a few trifling legacies to various comrades, Hardy said that he had managed to save a hundred pounds during his career, which he wished to divide between his two comrades, John Miles and Willie Armstrong, for whom he expressed strong regard.Sutherland, instead of noting this down, looked at his friend in sad surprise, thinking that weakness had caused his mind to wander.“Ye forget, serjint,” he said softly, “that Miles an’ Airmstrang are baith deed.”“No, lad; no one can say they are certainly dead.”“Aweel—we canna exactly say it, but when ye consider o’ the born deevils that have gotten haud o’ them, we are entitled tothinkthem deed ony way.”“They are reported as ‘missing,’ that is all, and that is enough for me. You write down what I tell you, lad. Now, have you got it down?”“Ay, fifty to each.”“There may be some interest due on the account,” said the sergeant thoughtfully; “besides, there may be a few things in my kit that I have forgotten—and it’s not worth while dividing such trifles between them.”“Weel, weel, ye’ve only to mak yin o’ them yer residooary legitee, an’ that’ll pit it a’ richt.”“True, my lawyer. Let it be so,” said Hardy, with a short laugh at the thought of making so much ado about nothing. “Make Miles my residuary legatee. And now, be off, draw it out fair, an’ leave me to rest, for I’m a trifle tired after all this legal work.”The will thus carefully considered was duly made out, signed, and witnessed, after which Sergeant Hardy awaited with cheerful resignation whatever fate should be appointed to him.His strong frame and constitution, undamaged by youthful excess, fought a vigorous battle for life, and he began slowly to mend; but the climate of Suakim was so bad for him that he was finally sent down to the hospital at Alexandria, where, under much more favourable circumstances, he began to recover rapidly.One of the nurses there was very kind to him. Finding that the sergeant was an earnest Christian, she had many interesting talks with him on the subject nearest his heart.One day she said to him with unusual animation:“The doctor says you may go down to the Soldiers’ Institute that has recently been set up here, and stay for some time to recruit. It is not intended for invalids, you know, but the ladies in charge are intimate friends of mine, and have agreed to let you have a room. The Institute stands on a very pleasant part of the shore, exposed to the fresh sea-breezes; and there are lots of books and newspapers and games, as well as lectures, concerts, prayer-meetings, Bible-readings, and—”“Ay, just like Miss Robinson’s Institute at Portsmouth,” interrupted Hardy. “I know the sort o’ thing well.”“The Alexandrian Soldiers’ Institute isalsoMiss Robinson’s,” returned the nurse, with a pleased look; “so if you know the one at Portsmouth, there is no need for my describing the other to you. The change will do you more good in a week than months at this place. And I’ll come to see you frequently. There is a widow lady staying there just now to whom I will introduce you. She has been helping us to nurse here, for she has great regard for soldiers; but her health having broken-down somewhat, she has transferred her services to the Institute for a time. She is the widow of a clergyman who came out here not long ago and died suddenly. You will find her a very sympathetic soul.”
Among the wounded in the great fight which we have just described was Hardy the sergeant.
His position at the time the Arabs broke into the square was close to the right flank of the Indian Native Regiment, which gave way, so that it was he and a number of the flank men of his company who had to do most of the hand-to-hand fighting necessary to repair the disaster and drive back the enemy. Of course every soldier engaged in that part of the fight was, for a time, almost overwhelmed in the confusion, and many of them were surrounded and severely wounded.
When the Native Infantry broke, Hardy’s captain sprang to the front, sword in hand, and cut down two of the foe. As he did so, he was, for a moment, separated from his company and surrounded. A powerful Arab was on the point of thrusting his spear into the captain’s back when Hardy observed his danger, bayoneted the Arab, and saved the officer. But it was almost at the cost of his own life, for another Arab, with whom he had been fighting at the moment, took advantage of the opportunity to thrust his spear into the chest of the sergeant, who fell, as was thought, mortally wounded.
This, however, was not the case, for when the fight was over, his wound, although dangerous, was not supposed to be fatal, and he went into hospital on returning to Suakim. He was a Blue Light, and his temperance habits told in his favour. So did his religion, for the calm equanimity with which he submitted to the will of God, and bore his sufferings, went far to assist the doctor in grappling with his wound. But his religion did more than that, for when he thought of the heaven that awaited him, if he should die, and of being “for ever with the Lord,” his heart was filled with joy; and joy not only “does not kill,”—it is absolutely a source of life. In the sergeant’s case it formed an important factor in restoring him to partial health.
One evening, some time after the battle of McNeill’s zereba, Sutherland and Gaspard Redgrave were seated beside the sergeant’s bed—cheering him up a bit, as they said—and chatting about the details of the recent fight. Once or twice the sergeant had tried to lead the conversation to religious subjects, but without success, for neither Sutherland nor Gaspard were seriously disposed, and both fought shy of such matters.
“Well, it’s very kind of you to come an’ cheer me up, lads,” said Hardy at last; “and I hope I may live to do the same for you, if either of you ever gets knocked over. Now, I want each of you to do me a favour. Will you promise?”
“Of course we will,” said Gaspard quickly.
“If we can,” said the more cautious Scot.
“Well, then, Gaspard, will you sing me a song? I think it would do me good.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” answered the soldier; “but,” he added, looking round doubtfully, “I don’t know how they might like it here.”
“They’ll not object; besides, you can sing low. You’ve got the knack of singin’ soft—better than any man I ever heard.”
“Well, what shall it be?” returned the gratified Gaspard.
“One of Sankey’s hymns,” said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his pillow and gave it to his friend.
Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to fulfil his promise.
“Sing Number 68, ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ I’m very fond of that hymn.”
In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was heard more than one “Amen” and “Thank God” from the neighbouring beds.
“Yes, comrades, we shall gather there,” said the sergeant, after a brief pause, “for the same Almighty Saviour who savedmedied foryouas well. I ain’t used to wettin’ my cheeks, asyouknow, lads, but I s’pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I have to ask of—”
“If ye’re thinkin’ o’ askin’ me to pray,” broke in the alarmed Scotsman, “ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, ‘if Ican.’ Noo, I cannotpray, an’ it’s nae use askin’ me to try. Whatever I may come to in this warld, I’ll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin’ man.”
“Quite right, Sutherland—quite right. I had no intention of asking you to pray,” replied Hardy, with a faint smile. “What I want you to do is to draw out my will for me.”
“Oh! I’m quite willin’ to do that,” returned the relieved Scot.
“You see,” continued the sergeant, “one never knows what may be the result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I possess to go in the right direction.”
“That’s a wise-like sentiment,” returned his friend, with an approving nod and thoughtful frown.
“Now, as you write a capital hand, and know how to express yourself on paper,” continued Hardy, “it strikes me that you will do the job better than any one else; and, being a friend, I feel that I can talk freely to you on my private affairs. So you’ll help me?”
“I’m wullin’ to try, serjint, and ac’ the legal adviser—amytoor-like, ye ken.”
“Thank you. Can you come to-morrow morning?”
“No, serjint, I canna, because I’ve to start airly the morn’s mornin’ wi’ a pairty to meet the Scots Gairds comin’ back frae Tamai, but the moment I come back I’ll come to ye.”
“That will do—thank you. And now, Gaspard, what’s the news from England? I hear that a mail has just come in.”
“News that will make your blood boil,” said Gaspard sternly.
“It would take a good deal of powerful news to boil the little blood that is left in me,” said Hardy, languidly.
“Well, I don’t know. Anyhow it makes mine boil. What d’you think of McNeill’s brave defence being represented in the papers as a disaster?”
“You don’t mean that!”
“Indeed I do. They say that it was a disaster! whereas it was a splendid defence under singularly adverse circumstances! They say that General McNeill permitted himself to be surprised! If he had tried to carry out his instructions to the full extent, it would indeed have been such a surprise that the surprising thing would have been if a single man of us had returned alive to tell the tale—as you and I know full well. The truth is, it was the fault of the Intelligence Department that nearly wrecked us, and it was McNeill’s prudence and our pluck that saved us, and yet these quill-drivers at home—bah!”
The soldier rose in hot indignation and strode from the room.
“He’s a wee thing roosed!” remarked Sutherland, with a good-humoured yet slightly cynical grin. “But guid-nicht to ye, ma man. Keep up hert an’ I’ll come an’ draft yer wull i’ the mornin’.”
So saying the “amytoor” lawyer took his departure, and was soon tramping over the desert sands with a band of his comrades.
They were not, however, permitted to tramp in peace, for their indefatigable foe hung on their skirts and annoyed them the greater part of the way. Toward evening they met the Guards, and as it was too late to return to Suakim the force bivouacked in McNeill’s deserted zereba, surrounded by graves and scarcely buried corpses.
Only those who were there can fully understand what that meant. All round the zereba, and for three miles on the Suakim side of it, the ground was strewn thickly with the graves of Europeans, Indians, and Arabs, and so shallow were these that from each of them there oozed a dark, dreadful stain. To add to the horrors of the scene, portions of mangled and putrefying corpses protruded from many of them—ghastly skulls, from the sockets of which the eyes had been picked by vultures and other obscene birds. Limbs of brave men upon which the hyena had already begun his dreadful work, and half-skeleton hands, with fingers spread and bent as if still clutching the foe in death-agony, protruded above the surface; mixed with these, and unburied, were the putrefying carcases of camels and mules—the whole filling the air with a horrible stench, and the soul with a fearful loathing, which ordinary language is powerless to describe, and the inexperienced imagination cannot conceive.
Oh! it is terrible to think that from the Fall till now man has gone on continually producing and reproducing scenes like this—sometimes, no doubt, unavoidably; but often, too often, because of some trifling error, or insult, on the part of statesmen, or some paltry dispute about a boundary, or, not infrequently, on grounds so shadowy and complex that succeeding historians have found it almost impossible to convey the meaning thereof to the intellects of average men!
Amid these dreadful memorials of the recent fight the party bivouacked!
Next day the troops returned to Suakim, and Sutherland, after breakfast, and what he called a wash-up, went to see his friend Sergeant Hardy, with pen, ink, and paper.
“Weel, serjint, hoo are ye the day?”
“Pretty well, thank you—pretty well. Ah! Sutherland, I have been thinking what an important thing it is for men to come to Jesus for salvation while in their health and strength; for now, instead of being anxious about my soul, as so many are when the end approaches, I am rejoicing in the thought of soon meeting God—my Father! Sutherland, my good fellow, it is foolish as well as wrong to think only of this life. Of all men in the world we soldiers ought to know this.”
The sergeant spoke so earnestly, and his eyes withal looked so solemnly from their sunken sockets, that his friend could not help being impressed.
“I believe ye’re no’ far wrang, serjint, an’ I tak’ shame to mysel’ that I’ve been sic a harum-scarum sinner up to this time.”
Sutherland said this with a look so honest that Hardy was moved to put out his large wasted hand and grasp that of his friend.
“Comrade,” he said, “God is waiting to be gracious. Jesus is ever ready and willing to save.”
Sutherland returned the pressure but made no reply; and Hardy, praying for a blessing on the little that had been said, changed the subject by saying—
“You have brought paper and ink, I see.”
“Ay, but, man, ye mauna be speakin’ o’ takin’ yer depairture yet. This draftin’ o’ yer wull is only a precaution.”
“Quite right, lad. I mean it only as a precaution,” returned Hardy, in a cheerful tone. “But you seem to have caught a cold—eh? What makes you cough and clear your throat so?”
“A cauld! I wush it was only a cauld! Man, it’s the stink o’ thae corps that I canna get oot o’ my nose an’ thrapple.”
Hereupon Sutherland, by way of entertaining his invalid friend, launched out into a graphic account of the scene he had so recently witnessed at McNeill’s zereba. When that subject was exhausted, he arranged his writing materials and began with all the solemnity of a lawyer.
“Noo, serjeant, what div ye want me to pit doon?”
“Well, I must explain first that I have very little to leave, and no one to leave it to.”
“What! Nae frien’s ava?”
“Not one. I have neither wife nor child, brother nor sister. I have indeed one old cousin, but he is rich, and would not be benefited by my poor little possessions; besides, he’s a cross-grained old fellow, and does not deserve anything, even though I had something worth leaving. However, I bear him no ill-will, poor man, only I don’t want what I do leave to go to him, which it would if I were to die without a will; because, of course, he is my natural heir, and—”
“Haud ye there, man,” said the Scot abruptly but slowly. “If he’s your nait’ral heir, ye’rehisnait’ral heir tae, ye ken.”
“Of course, I am aware of that,” returned the sergeant with an amused look; “but the old man is eccentric, and has always boasted that he means to leave his wealth to some charity. Indeed, I know that he has already made his will, leaving his money to build an hospital—for incurables of some sort, I believe.”
“Ma certy! If I was his lawyer,” said Sutherland, with ineffable scorn, “I wad advise him to erec’ an hospital in his lifetime for incurable eediots, an’ to gang in himsel’ as the first patient. But, come awa wi’ yer wull, serjint.”
“Get ready, then, my lawyer, and see that you put it down all ship-shape, as poor Molloy would have said.”
“Oh, ye needna fear,” said the Scot, “I’m no’ sic an ass as to trust to my ain legal knowledge. But jist you say what ye want an’ I’ll pit it doon, and then write it into a form in the reg’lar way.”
After mentioning a few trifling legacies to various comrades, Hardy said that he had managed to save a hundred pounds during his career, which he wished to divide between his two comrades, John Miles and Willie Armstrong, for whom he expressed strong regard.
Sutherland, instead of noting this down, looked at his friend in sad surprise, thinking that weakness had caused his mind to wander.
“Ye forget, serjint,” he said softly, “that Miles an’ Airmstrang are baith deed.”
“No, lad; no one can say they are certainly dead.”
“Aweel—we canna exactly say it, but when ye consider o’ the born deevils that have gotten haud o’ them, we are entitled tothinkthem deed ony way.”
“They are reported as ‘missing,’ that is all, and that is enough for me. You write down what I tell you, lad. Now, have you got it down?”
“Ay, fifty to each.”
“There may be some interest due on the account,” said the sergeant thoughtfully; “besides, there may be a few things in my kit that I have forgotten—and it’s not worth while dividing such trifles between them.”
“Weel, weel, ye’ve only to mak yin o’ them yer residooary legitee, an’ that’ll pit it a’ richt.”
“True, my lawyer. Let it be so,” said Hardy, with a short laugh at the thought of making so much ado about nothing. “Make Miles my residuary legatee. And now, be off, draw it out fair, an’ leave me to rest, for I’m a trifle tired after all this legal work.”
The will thus carefully considered was duly made out, signed, and witnessed, after which Sergeant Hardy awaited with cheerful resignation whatever fate should be appointed to him.
His strong frame and constitution, undamaged by youthful excess, fought a vigorous battle for life, and he began slowly to mend; but the climate of Suakim was so bad for him that he was finally sent down to the hospital at Alexandria, where, under much more favourable circumstances, he began to recover rapidly.
One of the nurses there was very kind to him. Finding that the sergeant was an earnest Christian, she had many interesting talks with him on the subject nearest his heart.
One day she said to him with unusual animation:
“The doctor says you may go down to the Soldiers’ Institute that has recently been set up here, and stay for some time to recruit. It is not intended for invalids, you know, but the ladies in charge are intimate friends of mine, and have agreed to let you have a room. The Institute stands on a very pleasant part of the shore, exposed to the fresh sea-breezes; and there are lots of books and newspapers and games, as well as lectures, concerts, prayer-meetings, Bible-readings, and—”
“Ay, just like Miss Robinson’s Institute at Portsmouth,” interrupted Hardy. “I know the sort o’ thing well.”
“The Alexandrian Soldiers’ Institute isalsoMiss Robinson’s,” returned the nurse, with a pleased look; “so if you know the one at Portsmouth, there is no need for my describing the other to you. The change will do you more good in a week than months at this place. And I’ll come to see you frequently. There is a widow lady staying there just now to whom I will introduce you. She has been helping us to nurse here, for she has great regard for soldiers; but her health having broken-down somewhat, she has transferred her services to the Institute for a time. She is the widow of a clergyman who came out here not long ago and died suddenly. You will find her a very sympathetic soul.”
Chapter Twenty.Old Friends in New Aspects.On the evening of the third day after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, Sergeant Hardy sat in an easy-chair on the verandah of the Soldiers’ Institute at Alexandria, in the enjoyment of a refreshing breeze, which, after ruffling the blue waters of the Mediterranean, came like a cool hand on a hot brow, to bless for a short time the land of Egypt.Like one of Aladdin’s palaces the Institute had sprung up—not exactly in a night, but in a marvellously short space of time. There was more of interest about it, too, than about the Aladdin buildings; for whereas the latter were evolved magically out of that mysterious and undefinable region termed Nowhere, the Miss Robinson edifice came direct from smoky, romantic London, without the advantage of supernatural assistance.When Miss Robinson’s soldier friends were leaving for the seat of war in Egypt, some of them had said to her, “Three thousand miles from home are three thousand good reasons why you should think of us!” The “Soldiers’ Friend” took these words to heart—also to God. She did think of them, and she persuaded other friends to think of them, to such good purpose that she soon found herself in possession of funds sufficient to begin the work.As we have seen, her energetic servant and fellow-worker, Mr Thomas Tufnell, was sent out to Egypt to select a site for the building. The old iron and wood Oratory at Brompton was bought, and sent out at Government expense—a fact which speaks volumes for the Government opinion of the value of Miss Robinson’s work among soldiers.In putting up the old Oratory, Tufnell had transformed it to an extent that might almost have made Aladdin’s Slave of the Lamp jealous. Certainly, those who were wont to “orate” in the building when it stood in Brompton would have failed to recognise the edifice as it arose in Egypt on the Boulevard Ramleh, between the Grand Square of Alexandria and the sea.The nave of the old Oratory had been converted into a room, ninety-nine feet long, with couches and tables running down both sides, a billiard-table in the centre, writing materials in abundance, and pictures on the walls. At one end of the room stood a pianoforte, couches, and easy-chairs, and a door opened into a garden facing the sea. Over the door were arranged several flags, and above these, in large letters, the appropriate words, “In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners.” At the other end was a temperance refreshment bar. On a verandah facing the sea men could repose on easy-chairs and smoke their pipes or cigars, while contemplating the peculiarities of an Eastern climate.It was here that our friend Sergeant Hardy was enjoying that blessed state of convalescence which may be described as gazing straight forward and thinking of nothing!Of course there were all the other appliances of a well-equipped Institute—such as sleeping-cabins, manager’s room, Bible-class room, lavatory, and all the rest of it, while a handsome new stone building close beside it contained sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, club-room for officers, kitchens, and, by no means least, though last, a large lecture-hall.But to these and many other things we must not devote too much space, for old friends in new aspects claim our attention. Only, in passing from such details, it may not be out of place to say that it has been remarked that the sight of Miss Robinson’s buildings, steadily rising from the midst of acres of ruins, while men’s minds were agitated by the bombardment and its results, produced a sense of security which had a most beneficial and quietening effect on the town! Indeed, one officer of high rank went so far as to say that the Institute scheme had given the inhabitants more confidence in the intentions of England than anything yet done or promised by Government!In a rocking-chair beside the sergeant reclined a shadow in loose—remarkably loose—fitting soldier’s costume.“What a blessed place to sit in and rest after the toils and sufferings of war,” said Hardy, to the shadow, “and how thankful I am to God for bringing me here!”“It’s a hivenly place intirely,” responded the shadow, “an’ ’tis mesilf as is thankful too—what’s left o’ me anyhow, an’ that’s not much. Sure I’ve had some quare thoughts in me mind since I come here. Wan o’ them was—what is the smallest amount o’ skin an’ bone that’s capable of howldin’ a thankful spirit?”“I never studied algebra, Flynn, so it’s of no use puttin’ the question to me,” said Hardy; “besides, I’m not well enough yet to tackle difficult questions, but I’m real glad to see you, my boy, though thereisso little of you to see.”“That’s it, sarjint; that’s just where it lies,” returned Flynn, in a slow, weak voice. “I’ve bin occupied wi’ that question too—namely, how thin may a man git widout losin’ the power to howld up his clo’es?”“You needn’t be uneasy on that score,” said Hardy, casting an amused glance at his companion, “for there’s plenty o’ flesh left yet to keep ye goin’ till you get to old Ireland. It rejoices my heart to see you beside me, thin though you are, for the report up country was that you had died on the way to Suez.”“Bad luck to their reports! That’s always the way of it. I do think the best way to take reports is to belaive the exact opposite o’ what’s towld ye, an’ so ye’ll come nearest the truth. It’s thrue I had a close shave. Wan day I felt a sort o’ light-hiddedness—as if I was a kind o’ livin’ balloon—and was floatin’ away, whin the doctor came an’ looked at me.“‘He’s gone,’ says he.“‘That’s a lie!’ says I, with more truth than purliteness, maybe.“An’ would ye belave it?—I began to mind from that hour! It was the doctor saved me widout intindin’ to—good luck to him! Anyhow he kep’ me from slippin’ my cable that time, but it was the good nursin’ as brought me back—my blissin’ on the dear ladies as give their hearts to this work all for love! By the way,” continued Flynn, coughing and looking very stern, for he was ashamed of a tear or two whichwouldrise and almost overflow in spite of his efforts to restrain them—but then, you see, he was very weak! “By the way,” he said, “you’ll niver guess who wan o’ the nurses is. Who d’ee think?—guess!”“I nevercouldguess right, Flynn.”“Try.”“Well, little Mrs Armstrong.”“Nonsense, man! Why, she’s nursin’ her old father in England, I s’pose.”“Miss Robinson, then?”“H’m! You might as well say the Prime Minister. How d’ee s’pose the Portsmuth Institute could git along widouther? No, it’s our friend Mrs Drew!”“What! The wife o’ the reverend gentleman as came out with us in the troop-ship?”“That same—though she’s no longer the wife of the riverend gintleman, for he’s dead—good man,” said Flynn, in a sad voice.“I’m grieved to hear that, for hewasa good man. And the pretty daughter, what of her?”“That’s more nor I can tell ye, boy. Sometimes her mother brings her to the hospital to let her see how they manage, but I fancy she thinks her too young yet to go in for sitch work by hersilf. Anyhow I’ve seen her only now an’ then; but the poor widdy comes rig’lar—though I do belave she does it widout pay. The husband died of a flyer caught in the hospital a good while since. They say that lots o’ young fellows are afther the daughter, for though the Drews are as poor as church rats, she’s got such a swate purty face, and such innocent ways wid her, that I’d try for her mesilf av it wasn’t that I’ve swore niver to forsake me owld grandmother.”Chatting thus about times past and present, while they watched the soldiers and seamen who passed continuously in and out of the Institute—intent on a game, or some non-intoxicant refreshment, or a lounge, a look at the papers, a confab with a comrade, or a bit of reading—the two invalids enjoyed their rest to the full, and frequently blessed the lady who provided such a retreat, as well as her warm-hearted assistants, who, for the love of Christ and human souls, had devoted themselves to carry on the work in that far-off land.“I often think—” said Hardy.But what he thought was never revealed; for at that moment two ladies in deep mourning approached, whom the sergeant recognised at a glance as Mrs Drew and her daughter Marion. The faces of both were pale and sorrowful; but the beauty of the younger was rather enhanced than otherwise by this, and by contrast with her sombre garments.They both recognised the sergeant at once, and, hastening forward, so as to prevent his rising, greeted him with the kindly warmth of old friends.“It seems such a long time since we met,” said the elder lady, “but we have never forgotten you or the comrades with whom we used to have such pleasant talks in the troop-ship.”“Sure am I, madam,” said the sergeant, “that they have never forgottenyouand your kind—kind—”“Yes, my husband wasverykind to you all,” said the widow, observing the delicacy of feeling which stopped the soldier’s utterance; “he was kind to every one. But we have heard some rumours that have made me and my daughter very sad. Is it true that a great many men of your regiment were killed and wounded at the battle fought by General McNeill?”“Quite true, madam,” answered the sergeant, glancing at the daughter with some surprise; for Marion was gazing at him with an intensely anxious look and parted lips. “But, thank God, many were spared!”“And—and—how are the two fine-looking young men that were so fond of each other—like twins almost—”“Sure, didn’t I tell ye, misthress, that they was both ki—”“Hold your tongue, Flynn,” interrupted the widow, with a forced smile. “You are one of my most talkative patients! I want to hear the truth of this matter from a man who has come more recently from the scene of action than yourself. What do you think, Mr Hardy?”“You refer to John Miles and William Armstrong, no doubt, madam,” said the sergeant, in a somewhat encouraging tone. “Well, if Flynn says they were killed he has no ground whatever for saying so. They are only reported missing. Of course that is bad enough, but as long as a man is only missing there is plenty of room for hope. You see, they may have managed to hide, or been carried off as prisoners into the interior; and you may be sure the Arabs would not be such fools as to kill two men like Miles and Armstrong; they’d rather make slaves of ’em, in which case there will be a chance of their escaping, or, if we should become friendly again wi’ these fellows, they’d be set free.”“I’m so glad to hear you say so, and I felt sure that my desponding patient here was taking too gloomy a view of the matter,” said Mrs Drew, with a significant glance at Marion, who seemed to breathe more freely and to lose some of her anxious expression after the sergeant’s remarks.Perhaps at this point a little conversation that took place between Mrs Drew and her daughter that same evening may not be out of place.“Dear May,” said the former, “did I not tell you that Flynn took too gloomy a view of the case of these young soldiers, in whom your dear father was so much interested? But, darling, is it not foolish in you to think so much about Miles?”“It may be foolish, mother, but I cannot help it,” said Marion, blushing deeply; for she was very modest as well as simple.“May, dear, I wonder that you can make such an admission!” said the mother remonstratively.“Is it wrong to make such an admission to one’s own mother, when it is true?” asked Marion, still blushing, but looking straight in her mother’s eyes; for she was very straightforward as well as modest and simple!“Of course not, dear, but—but—in short, Miles is only a—a—soldier, you know, and—”“Onlya soldier!” interrupted Marion, with a flash from her soft brown eyes; for she was an enthusiast as well as straightforward, modest, and simple! “I suppose you mean that he is only a private, but what then? May not the poorest private in the army rise, if he be but noble-minded and worthy and capable, to the rank of a general, or higher—if there is anything higher? Possibly the Commander-in-Chief-ship may be open to him!”“True, my love, but in the meantime his social position is—”“Is quite as good as our own,” interrupted Marion; for she was a desperate little radical as well as an enthusiast, straightforward, modest, and simple!“You know he let out something about his parents and position, andof coursehe told the truth. Besides, I repeat that I cannothelploving him, and surely we are not responsible for our affections. We cannot love and hate to order. I might fall in love with—with—well, it’s no good talking; but, anyhow, I could not help it. I could be silent if you like, but I could not help myself.”Mrs Drew seemed a little puzzled how to deal with her impetuous daughter, and had begun to reply, when May interrupted her. Flushing deeply, for she was very sensitive, and with a feeling that amounted almost to indignation, she continued—“I wonder at you, mother—it’s so unlike you; as if those unworthy considerations of difference of rank and station could influence, or ought to influence, one in such a question as this!”Mrs Drew paused for a moment. She knew that her daughter gave expression to the views that had marked the dealings of the husband and father, so lately lost to them, in every action of his life. Marion’s happiness, too, during the remainder of her days, might be involved in the result of the present conversation, and she was moved to say—“My dear, has John Miles ever spoken to you?”“Oh! mother, how can you ask me? If he had done so, would I have delayed one minute in letting you know?”“Forgive me, dearest. I did you wrong in admitting the thought even for a moment. But you spoke so earnestly—as if you might have some reason for thinking that he cared for you.”“Don’t you know,” answered Marion, looking down, and a little confused, “that men can speak with their eyes as well as their lips? I not only feel sure that he cares for me, but I feel sure, from the sentiments he expressed to me on the voyage, thatnothingwould induce him to talk to me of love while in his present position.”“How does all this consist, my love,” asked Mrs Drew, “with your knowledge of the fact that he left home in anger, and would not be persuaded, even by your dear father, to write home a penitent letter?”Marion was silent. This had not occurred to her before. But love is not to be turned from its object by trifles. She was all that we have more than once described her to be; but she was not a meta-physician or a philosopher, capable of comprehending and explaining occult mysteries. Enough for her if she loved Miles and Miles loved her, and then, even if he did not deserve her love, she would remain true—secretly but unalterably true—to him as the needle is to the pole!“Has it not occurred to you, dear,” said her mother, pursuing her advantage in a meditative tone, “that if Miles has been so plain-spoken and eloquent with his blue eye, that your pretty brown ones may have said something tohim?”“Never!” exclaimed the girl, with an indignant flash. “Oh! mother, can you believe me capable of—of—no, I never looked at him except with the air of a perfect stranger—at least of a—a—but why should I try to deny what could not possibly be true?”Mrs Drew felt that nothing was to be gained from pursuing the subject—or one aspect of it—further.“At any rate,” she said, “I am glad, for his own sake, poor young fellow, that Sergeant Hardy spoke so hopefully.”“And for his comrades’ sakes as well,” said Marion. “You know, mother, that his friend Armstrong is also reported as missing, and Stevenson the marine, as well as that dear big bluff sailor, Jack Molloy. By the way, do you feel well enough to go to the lecture to-night? It is to be a very interesting one, I am told, with magic-lantern illustrations, and I don’t like to go alone.”“I am going to-night, so you may make your mind easy,” said her mother. “I would not miss this lecturer, because I am told that he is a remarkably good one, and the hall is likely to be quite full.”In regard to this lecture and some other things connected with the Alexandrian Institute, our friend Sergeant Hardy learned a good deal from the lady at the head of it, not long after the time that Mrs Drew had the foregoing conversation with Marion.It is scarcely needful to say that the Lady-Superintendent was a capable Christian as well as an enthusiast in her work.“Come to my room, Sergeant Hardy, and I’ll tell you all about it,” she said, leading the way to her apartment, where the sergeant placed himself upon a chair, bolt upright, as if he were going to have a tooth drawn, or were about to illustrate some new species of sitting-drill.
On the evening of the third day after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, Sergeant Hardy sat in an easy-chair on the verandah of the Soldiers’ Institute at Alexandria, in the enjoyment of a refreshing breeze, which, after ruffling the blue waters of the Mediterranean, came like a cool hand on a hot brow, to bless for a short time the land of Egypt.
Like one of Aladdin’s palaces the Institute had sprung up—not exactly in a night, but in a marvellously short space of time. There was more of interest about it, too, than about the Aladdin buildings; for whereas the latter were evolved magically out of that mysterious and undefinable region termed Nowhere, the Miss Robinson edifice came direct from smoky, romantic London, without the advantage of supernatural assistance.
When Miss Robinson’s soldier friends were leaving for the seat of war in Egypt, some of them had said to her, “Three thousand miles from home are three thousand good reasons why you should think of us!” The “Soldiers’ Friend” took these words to heart—also to God. She did think of them, and she persuaded other friends to think of them, to such good purpose that she soon found herself in possession of funds sufficient to begin the work.
As we have seen, her energetic servant and fellow-worker, Mr Thomas Tufnell, was sent out to Egypt to select a site for the building. The old iron and wood Oratory at Brompton was bought, and sent out at Government expense—a fact which speaks volumes for the Government opinion of the value of Miss Robinson’s work among soldiers.
In putting up the old Oratory, Tufnell had transformed it to an extent that might almost have made Aladdin’s Slave of the Lamp jealous. Certainly, those who were wont to “orate” in the building when it stood in Brompton would have failed to recognise the edifice as it arose in Egypt on the Boulevard Ramleh, between the Grand Square of Alexandria and the sea.
The nave of the old Oratory had been converted into a room, ninety-nine feet long, with couches and tables running down both sides, a billiard-table in the centre, writing materials in abundance, and pictures on the walls. At one end of the room stood a pianoforte, couches, and easy-chairs, and a door opened into a garden facing the sea. Over the door were arranged several flags, and above these, in large letters, the appropriate words, “In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners.” At the other end was a temperance refreshment bar. On a verandah facing the sea men could repose on easy-chairs and smoke their pipes or cigars, while contemplating the peculiarities of an Eastern climate.
It was here that our friend Sergeant Hardy was enjoying that blessed state of convalescence which may be described as gazing straight forward and thinking of nothing!
Of course there were all the other appliances of a well-equipped Institute—such as sleeping-cabins, manager’s room, Bible-class room, lavatory, and all the rest of it, while a handsome new stone building close beside it contained sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, club-room for officers, kitchens, and, by no means least, though last, a large lecture-hall.
But to these and many other things we must not devote too much space, for old friends in new aspects claim our attention. Only, in passing from such details, it may not be out of place to say that it has been remarked that the sight of Miss Robinson’s buildings, steadily rising from the midst of acres of ruins, while men’s minds were agitated by the bombardment and its results, produced a sense of security which had a most beneficial and quietening effect on the town! Indeed, one officer of high rank went so far as to say that the Institute scheme had given the inhabitants more confidence in the intentions of England than anything yet done or promised by Government!
In a rocking-chair beside the sergeant reclined a shadow in loose—remarkably loose—fitting soldier’s costume.
“What a blessed place to sit in and rest after the toils and sufferings of war,” said Hardy, to the shadow, “and how thankful I am to God for bringing me here!”
“It’s a hivenly place intirely,” responded the shadow, “an’ ’tis mesilf as is thankful too—what’s left o’ me anyhow, an’ that’s not much. Sure I’ve had some quare thoughts in me mind since I come here. Wan o’ them was—what is the smallest amount o’ skin an’ bone that’s capable of howldin’ a thankful spirit?”
“I never studied algebra, Flynn, so it’s of no use puttin’ the question to me,” said Hardy; “besides, I’m not well enough yet to tackle difficult questions, but I’m real glad to see you, my boy, though thereisso little of you to see.”
“That’s it, sarjint; that’s just where it lies,” returned Flynn, in a slow, weak voice. “I’ve bin occupied wi’ that question too—namely, how thin may a man git widout losin’ the power to howld up his clo’es?”
“You needn’t be uneasy on that score,” said Hardy, casting an amused glance at his companion, “for there’s plenty o’ flesh left yet to keep ye goin’ till you get to old Ireland. It rejoices my heart to see you beside me, thin though you are, for the report up country was that you had died on the way to Suez.”
“Bad luck to their reports! That’s always the way of it. I do think the best way to take reports is to belaive the exact opposite o’ what’s towld ye, an’ so ye’ll come nearest the truth. It’s thrue I had a close shave. Wan day I felt a sort o’ light-hiddedness—as if I was a kind o’ livin’ balloon—and was floatin’ away, whin the doctor came an’ looked at me.
“‘He’s gone,’ says he.
“‘That’s a lie!’ says I, with more truth than purliteness, maybe.
“An’ would ye belave it?—I began to mind from that hour! It was the doctor saved me widout intindin’ to—good luck to him! Anyhow he kep’ me from slippin’ my cable that time, but it was the good nursin’ as brought me back—my blissin’ on the dear ladies as give their hearts to this work all for love! By the way,” continued Flynn, coughing and looking very stern, for he was ashamed of a tear or two whichwouldrise and almost overflow in spite of his efforts to restrain them—but then, you see, he was very weak! “By the way,” he said, “you’ll niver guess who wan o’ the nurses is. Who d’ee think?—guess!”
“I nevercouldguess right, Flynn.”
“Try.”
“Well, little Mrs Armstrong.”
“Nonsense, man! Why, she’s nursin’ her old father in England, I s’pose.”
“Miss Robinson, then?”
“H’m! You might as well say the Prime Minister. How d’ee s’pose the Portsmuth Institute could git along widouther? No, it’s our friend Mrs Drew!”
“What! The wife o’ the reverend gentleman as came out with us in the troop-ship?”
“That same—though she’s no longer the wife of the riverend gintleman, for he’s dead—good man,” said Flynn, in a sad voice.
“I’m grieved to hear that, for hewasa good man. And the pretty daughter, what of her?”
“That’s more nor I can tell ye, boy. Sometimes her mother brings her to the hospital to let her see how they manage, but I fancy she thinks her too young yet to go in for sitch work by hersilf. Anyhow I’ve seen her only now an’ then; but the poor widdy comes rig’lar—though I do belave she does it widout pay. The husband died of a flyer caught in the hospital a good while since. They say that lots o’ young fellows are afther the daughter, for though the Drews are as poor as church rats, she’s got such a swate purty face, and such innocent ways wid her, that I’d try for her mesilf av it wasn’t that I’ve swore niver to forsake me owld grandmother.”
Chatting thus about times past and present, while they watched the soldiers and seamen who passed continuously in and out of the Institute—intent on a game, or some non-intoxicant refreshment, or a lounge, a look at the papers, a confab with a comrade, or a bit of reading—the two invalids enjoyed their rest to the full, and frequently blessed the lady who provided such a retreat, as well as her warm-hearted assistants, who, for the love of Christ and human souls, had devoted themselves to carry on the work in that far-off land.
“I often think—” said Hardy.
But what he thought was never revealed; for at that moment two ladies in deep mourning approached, whom the sergeant recognised at a glance as Mrs Drew and her daughter Marion. The faces of both were pale and sorrowful; but the beauty of the younger was rather enhanced than otherwise by this, and by contrast with her sombre garments.
They both recognised the sergeant at once, and, hastening forward, so as to prevent his rising, greeted him with the kindly warmth of old friends.
“It seems such a long time since we met,” said the elder lady, “but we have never forgotten you or the comrades with whom we used to have such pleasant talks in the troop-ship.”
“Sure am I, madam,” said the sergeant, “that they have never forgottenyouand your kind—kind—”
“Yes, my husband wasverykind to you all,” said the widow, observing the delicacy of feeling which stopped the soldier’s utterance; “he was kind to every one. But we have heard some rumours that have made me and my daughter very sad. Is it true that a great many men of your regiment were killed and wounded at the battle fought by General McNeill?”
“Quite true, madam,” answered the sergeant, glancing at the daughter with some surprise; for Marion was gazing at him with an intensely anxious look and parted lips. “But, thank God, many were spared!”
“And—and—how are the two fine-looking young men that were so fond of each other—like twins almost—”
“Sure, didn’t I tell ye, misthress, that they was both ki—”
“Hold your tongue, Flynn,” interrupted the widow, with a forced smile. “You are one of my most talkative patients! I want to hear the truth of this matter from a man who has come more recently from the scene of action than yourself. What do you think, Mr Hardy?”
“You refer to John Miles and William Armstrong, no doubt, madam,” said the sergeant, in a somewhat encouraging tone. “Well, if Flynn says they were killed he has no ground whatever for saying so. They are only reported missing. Of course that is bad enough, but as long as a man is only missing there is plenty of room for hope. You see, they may have managed to hide, or been carried off as prisoners into the interior; and you may be sure the Arabs would not be such fools as to kill two men like Miles and Armstrong; they’d rather make slaves of ’em, in which case there will be a chance of their escaping, or, if we should become friendly again wi’ these fellows, they’d be set free.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say so, and I felt sure that my desponding patient here was taking too gloomy a view of the matter,” said Mrs Drew, with a significant glance at Marion, who seemed to breathe more freely and to lose some of her anxious expression after the sergeant’s remarks.
Perhaps at this point a little conversation that took place between Mrs Drew and her daughter that same evening may not be out of place.
“Dear May,” said the former, “did I not tell you that Flynn took too gloomy a view of the case of these young soldiers, in whom your dear father was so much interested? But, darling, is it not foolish in you to think so much about Miles?”
“It may be foolish, mother, but I cannot help it,” said Marion, blushing deeply; for she was very modest as well as simple.
“May, dear, I wonder that you can make such an admission!” said the mother remonstratively.
“Is it wrong to make such an admission to one’s own mother, when it is true?” asked Marion, still blushing, but looking straight in her mother’s eyes; for she was very straightforward as well as modest and simple!
“Of course not, dear, but—but—in short, Miles is only a—a—soldier, you know, and—”
“Onlya soldier!” interrupted Marion, with a flash from her soft brown eyes; for she was an enthusiast as well as straightforward, modest, and simple! “I suppose you mean that he is only a private, but what then? May not the poorest private in the army rise, if he be but noble-minded and worthy and capable, to the rank of a general, or higher—if there is anything higher? Possibly the Commander-in-Chief-ship may be open to him!”
“True, my love, but in the meantime his social position is—”
“Is quite as good as our own,” interrupted Marion; for she was a desperate little radical as well as an enthusiast, straightforward, modest, and simple!
“You know he let out something about his parents and position, andof coursehe told the truth. Besides, I repeat that I cannothelploving him, and surely we are not responsible for our affections. We cannot love and hate to order. I might fall in love with—with—well, it’s no good talking; but, anyhow, I could not help it. I could be silent if you like, but I could not help myself.”
Mrs Drew seemed a little puzzled how to deal with her impetuous daughter, and had begun to reply, when May interrupted her. Flushing deeply, for she was very sensitive, and with a feeling that amounted almost to indignation, she continued—
“I wonder at you, mother—it’s so unlike you; as if those unworthy considerations of difference of rank and station could influence, or ought to influence, one in such a question as this!”
Mrs Drew paused for a moment. She knew that her daughter gave expression to the views that had marked the dealings of the husband and father, so lately lost to them, in every action of his life. Marion’s happiness, too, during the remainder of her days, might be involved in the result of the present conversation, and she was moved to say—
“My dear, has John Miles ever spoken to you?”
“Oh! mother, how can you ask me? If he had done so, would I have delayed one minute in letting you know?”
“Forgive me, dearest. I did you wrong in admitting the thought even for a moment. But you spoke so earnestly—as if you might have some reason for thinking that he cared for you.”
“Don’t you know,” answered Marion, looking down, and a little confused, “that men can speak with their eyes as well as their lips? I not only feel sure that he cares for me, but I feel sure, from the sentiments he expressed to me on the voyage, thatnothingwould induce him to talk to me of love while in his present position.”
“How does all this consist, my love,” asked Mrs Drew, “with your knowledge of the fact that he left home in anger, and would not be persuaded, even by your dear father, to write home a penitent letter?”
Marion was silent. This had not occurred to her before. But love is not to be turned from its object by trifles. She was all that we have more than once described her to be; but she was not a meta-physician or a philosopher, capable of comprehending and explaining occult mysteries. Enough for her if she loved Miles and Miles loved her, and then, even if he did not deserve her love, she would remain true—secretly but unalterably true—to him as the needle is to the pole!
“Has it not occurred to you, dear,” said her mother, pursuing her advantage in a meditative tone, “that if Miles has been so plain-spoken and eloquent with his blue eye, that your pretty brown ones may have said something tohim?”
“Never!” exclaimed the girl, with an indignant flash. “Oh! mother, can you believe me capable of—of—no, I never looked at him except with the air of a perfect stranger—at least of a—a—but why should I try to deny what could not possibly be true?”
Mrs Drew felt that nothing was to be gained from pursuing the subject—or one aspect of it—further.
“At any rate,” she said, “I am glad, for his own sake, poor young fellow, that Sergeant Hardy spoke so hopefully.”
“And for his comrades’ sakes as well,” said Marion. “You know, mother, that his friend Armstrong is also reported as missing, and Stevenson the marine, as well as that dear big bluff sailor, Jack Molloy. By the way, do you feel well enough to go to the lecture to-night? It is to be a very interesting one, I am told, with magic-lantern illustrations, and I don’t like to go alone.”
“I am going to-night, so you may make your mind easy,” said her mother. “I would not miss this lecturer, because I am told that he is a remarkably good one, and the hall is likely to be quite full.”
In regard to this lecture and some other things connected with the Alexandrian Institute, our friend Sergeant Hardy learned a good deal from the lady at the head of it, not long after the time that Mrs Drew had the foregoing conversation with Marion.
It is scarcely needful to say that the Lady-Superintendent was a capable Christian as well as an enthusiast in her work.
“Come to my room, Sergeant Hardy, and I’ll tell you all about it,” she said, leading the way to her apartment, where the sergeant placed himself upon a chair, bolt upright, as if he were going to have a tooth drawn, or were about to illustrate some new species of sitting-drill.
Chapter Twenty One.Shows how the Lady of the Institute discourses to the Sergeant, how Jack-Tars go out on the Spree, and how Music Conquers Warriors.“It seems wonderful to me, madam,” said Sergeant Hardy, looking round the lady’s room with an admiring gaze, “how quickly you have got things into working order here. When I remember that last year this place was a heap of rubbish, it seems like magic.”“Ah! the work of God on earth seems magical the more we reflect on it,” returned the lady. “The fact that our Institute was conceived, planned, and carried into successful operation by an invalid lady, in spite of discouragement, and, at first, with inadequate means, is itself little short of miraculous, but what is even more surprising is the fact that the Government, which began by throwing cold water on her Portsmouth work, has ended by recognising it and by affording us every facility here in Alexandria.”“Well, you see, madam, I suppose it’s because they see that we soldiers and sailors likes it, an’ it does a power o’ good—don’t you think?”“No doubt, but whatever may be the reason, Sergeant, we are very thankful for the encouragement. I suppose you have heard what a grand occasion our opening day was?”“No, madam, I haven’t. You see, away at Suakim we was so constantly taken up with the attentions of Osman Digna that we had little time for anything but eatin’ and sleepin’ when we wasn’t on sentry an’ fightin’, so that we often missed bits of news. Was there a great turn-out o’ men?”“Indeed there was,” returned the lady, with animation; “and not only of men, but of all the Alexandrian notables. It was on the 23rd of February last (1885) that our Institute was opened by Major-General Lennox, V.C., C.B., who was in command of the garrison. This was not the first time by any means that the soldiers had paid us a visit. A number of men, who, like yourself, Sergeant Hardy, sympathise with our work in its spiritual aspects, had been frequently coming to see how we were getting on, and many a pleasant hour’s prayer and singing we had enjoyed with them, accompanied by our little harmonium, which had been sent to us by kind friends in England; and every Sunday evening we had had a little service in the midst of the shavings and carpenters’ benches.“But on this grand opening day the men came down in hundreds, and a great surprise some of them got—especially the sceptical among them. The entrance was decorated with palms. At the further end of the reading-room the trophy of Union Jacks and the Royal Standard, which you see there now, was put up by a band of Jack-tars who had come to help us as well as to see the fun. Over the trophy was our text, ‘In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners,’ for we liked to feel that we had taken possession of this little spot in Egypt for God—and we believe that it will always be His.“Everything was bright and hearty. There were about five hundred soldiers and sailors, and between two and three hundred officers and civilians of all nationalities. On the platform we had Osman Pasha—”“Ha!” interrupted the sympathetic sergeant, “I only wish we could have had Osman Digna there too! It would do more to pacify the Soudan than killing his men does!”“I daresay it would,” responded the lady with a laugh, “but have patience, Hardy; we shall have him there yet, and perhaps the Mahdi too—or some future grand occasion. Well, as I was saying, we had Osman, the Governor of Alexandria, on our platform, and a lot of big-wigs that you know nothing about, but whose influence was of importance, and whose appearance went far to make the place look gay. Of course we had music, beginning with ‘God save the Queen,’ and speeches—brilliant as well as heavy; sententious and comic—like all other similar gatherings, and the enthusiasm was unbounded. How could it be otherwise with sailors to cheer and soldiers to back them up? And you may be sure that in such a meeting the enthusiasm about the undertaking did not fail to extend to the ‘Soldiers’ Friend’ who had originated the whole. In short, it was a splendid success.”“Of course it was,” said the sergeant, with emphasis; “first, because of God’s blessing, an’, second, because the Institoot was greatly needed. Why, madam, if it wasn’t for this place the thousands of soldiers stationed here, not to mention the sailors, would have no place to go to spend their leave and leisure time but the drinkin’ dens o’ the town; anyouknow well, though p’r’aps not so well as I do, what terrible places these are, where men are tempted, fleeced, debauched, and sometimes murdered.”“Quite true, Hardy. Did you hear of the case that occurred just two days ago? A sergeant of one of the regiments, I forget which, after paying his fare to a donkey-boy, turned quietly to walk away, when the scoundrel felled him with a stick and robbed him of one pound 10 shillings. The case is before the law-court now, and no doubt the robber will receive a just reward.“Well, as I was remarking, the opening day carried us to high tide, so to speak, and there has been no ebb from that day to this. One comical incident, however, occurred just at the beginning, which might have done us damage. The day after the opening all was prepared for the reception of our soldier and sailor friends. The tables were arranged with books and games, the writing-table with pens, ink, and blotting-paper, and the bar with all sorts of eatables, magnificent urns, coloured glass, etcetera. About one o’clock William, our barman, tasted the coffee. His usual expression of self-satisfaction gave place to one of horror. He tasted the coffee again. The look of horror deepened. He ran to the boiler, and the mystery was cleared up. The boiler had been filled with salt-water! Our Arab, Ibraim, who carries up seawater daily to fill our baths, had filled the boiler with the same. Luckily there was time to correct the mistake, and when our friends came trooping in at four o’clock they found the coffee quite to their taste.“You know very well,” continued the superintendent, “our rules never to force religion on any of our customers, our object being toattractby all the legitimate means in our power. We have our Bible-classes, prayer-meetings, temperance soirees, and the like, distinct—as at Portsmouth—from the other advantages of the Institute; and are quite content if some, who come at first from mere curiosity or for the enjoyment of temporal good things, should afterwards continue to come from higher and spiritual motives. But if our military friends prefer to read our papers and books, and play our games, and use our bar, they are at perfect liberty to do so, without what I may style religious interference. It’s all fair and above-board, you see. We fully recognise the freedom of will that God has bestowed on man. If you don’t care for our spiritual fare you may let it alone. If you relish it—there it is, and you are welcome. Yet we hold by our right to win men if we can. In point of fact, we have been very successful already in this way, for our motive power from beginning to end is Love.“One of our most helpful soldier friends—a sergeant—has brought several men to the Saviour, who are now our steady supporters. One of these men, whom our sergeant was the means of bringing in, was a professed unbeliever of good standing and ability. The first time he was prevailed on to come to a prayer-meeting, he sat bolt upright while we knelt, being a straightforward sort of man who refused to pretend when he could not really pray. He is now a happy follower of Jesus.“Our large rooms are constantly filled with soldiers, some chatting, some making up for past privations by having a good English meal, and others reading or playing games. Just now happens to be our quietest hour, but it won’t be long before we have a bustling scene.”As if to verify the lady’s words there came through the doorways at that moment a sound of shouting and cheering, which caused all the staff of the Institute to start into active life.“There they come!” exclaimed the lady, with an intelligent smile, as she hurried from the room, leaving Hardy to follow at a pace that was more consistent with his dignity—and, we may add, his physical weakness.The shouts proceeded from a party of sailors on leave from one of the ironclads lying in the harbour. These, being out for the day—on a spree as some of them styled it—had hired donkeys, and come in a body to the Institute, where they knew that food of the best, dressed in British fashion, and familiar games, were to be had, along with British cheer and sympathy.When Hardy reached the door he found the place swarming with blue-jackets, trooping up at intervals on various animals, but none on foot, save those who had fallen off their mounts and were trying to get on again.“They’re all donkeyfied together,” remarked a sarcastic old salt—not one of the party—who stood beside Hardy, looking complacently on, and smoking his pipe.“They don’t steer as well on land as on sea,” replied Hardy.“’Cause they ain’t used to such craft, you see—that’s w’ere it is, sarjint,” said the old salt, removing his pipe for a moment. “Just look at ’em—some comin’ along sidewise like crabs, others stern foremost. W’y, there’s that grey craft wi’ the broad little man holdin’ on to its tail to prevent his slidin’ over its head. I’ve watched that grey craft for some minutes, and its hind propellers have bin so often in the air that it do seem as if it was walkin’ upon its front legs. Hallo! I was sure he’d go down by the head at last.”The donkey in question had indeed gone down by the head, and rolled over, pitching its rider on his broad shoulders, which, however, seemed none the worse for the fall.“Ketch hold of his tail, Bill,” cried another man, “and hold his stern down—see if that won’t cure his plungin’. He’s like a Dutchman in a cross sea.”“Keep clear o’ this fellow’s heels, Jack, he’s agoin’ to fire another broadside.”“If he does he’ll unship you,” cried Jack, who was himself at the same moment unshipped, while the owner of the donkey, and of the other donkeys, shouted advice, if nothing worse, in Arabic and broken English.In a few minutes the sailors “boarded” the Institute, and drew the whole force of the establishment to the bar in order to supply the demand.“Ah! thin, ye’ve got Irish whisky, haven’t ye?” demanded a facetious seaman.“Yes, plenty, but we call it coffee here!” answered the equally facetious barman, whose satellites were distributing hot and cold drinks with a degree of speed that could only be the fruit of much practice.“You’ll have to be jolly on mild swipes,” said one; “no tostikatin’ liquors allowed, Dick.”“H’m!” growled Dick.“Got any wittles here?” demanded another man, wiping his lips with his sleeve.“Yes, plenty. Sit down and order what you want.”“For nothin’?” asked the tar.“Fornextto nothing!” was the prompt reply. Meanwhile, those whose appetites were not quite so urgent had distributed themselves about the place, and were already busy with draughts, billiards, etcetera, while those who were of more sedate and inquiring temperament were deep in the columns of the English papers and magazines.“I say, Fred Thorley, ain’t it bang up?” remarked a sturdy little man, through a huge slice of cake, with which he had just filled his mouth.“Fuss-rate!” responded Fred, as he finished a cup of coffee at a draught and called for more. “Didn’t I tell you, Sam, that you’d like it better than the native grog-shops?”“If they’d on’y got bitter beer!” sighed Sam.“They’ve got better beer,” said his friend; “try some ginger-pop.”“No thankee. If I can’t git it strong, let’s at least have it hot. But, I say, what’s come o’ the lobsters? Don’t seem to be many about. I thought this here Institoot was got up a-purpose forthem.“So it was, lad, includin’ us; but you don’t suppose that becauseyouare out on the spree, everybody else is. They’re on dooty just now. Wait a bit an’ you’ll see plenty of ’em afore long.”“Are all that come here Blue Lights?” asked Sam, with a somewhat doleful visage.“By no manner o’ means,” returned his friend, with a laugh; “tho’ for the matter o’ that they wouldn’t be worse men if they was, but many of ’em are no better than they should be, an’ d’ee know, Sam, there are some of ’em actually as great blackguards a’most as yourself!”“There’s some comfort in that anyhow,” returned Sam, with a pleasant smile, “for I hates to be pecooliar. By the way, Fred, p’r’aps they may be able to give you some noos here, if you ax ’em, about your friend Jack Molloy.Hewas a Blue Light, wasn’t he?”“Not w’en I know’d ’im, but he was a fuss-rate seaman an’ a good friend, though hewasfond of his glass, like yourself, Sam.”It chanced that at this point Sergeant Hardy, in moving about the place, taking profound interest in all that he saw, came within earshot of the two friends, to whom he at once went up and introduced himself as a friend of Jack Molloy.“Indeed,” said he, “Molloy and I fought pretty near to each other in that last affair under General McNeill, so I can give you the latest news of him.”“Can you, old man? Come, sit down here, an’ let’s have it then,” said Thorley. “Jack was an old messmate o’ mine. What’ll you take to drink, mate?”“Nothing, thankee. I’m allowanced by the doctor even in the matter o’ tea and coffee,” said the sergeant. “As to bein’ an’ old man—well, I ain’t much older than yourself, I daresay, though wounds and sickness and physic are apt to age a man in looks.”Sitting down beside the sailors, Hardy told of the great fight at McNeill’s zereba, and how Molloy and others of his friends had gone to rescue a comrade and been cut off. He relieved Fred’s mind, however, by taking the most hopeful view of the matter, as he had previously relieved the feelings of Marion. And then the three fell to chatting on things in general and the war in particular.“Now don’t this feel homelike?” said Sam, looking round the room with great satisfaction. “If it wasn’t for the heat I’d a’most think we was in a temperance coffee-house in old England.”“Or owld Ireland,” chimed in a sailor at the neighbouring table.“To say naething o’ auld Scotland,” added a rugged man in red hair, who sat beside him.“Well, messmate,” assented Fred, “itdofeel homelike, an’ no mistake. Why, what ever isthat?”The sailor paused, and held up a finger as if to impose silence while he listened, but there was no need to enforce silence, for at that moment the sweet strains of a harmonium were heard at the other end of the long room, and quietude profound descended on the company as a rich baritone voice sang, with wonderful pathos, the familiar notes and words of “Home, Sweet Home!”Before that song was finished many a warrior there had to fight desperately with his own spirit to conceal the fact that his eyes were full of tears. Indeed, not a few of them refused to fight at all, but, ingloriously lowering their colours, allowed the tell-tale drops to course over their bronzed faces, as they thought of sweethearts and wives and friends and home circles and “the light of other days.”
“It seems wonderful to me, madam,” said Sergeant Hardy, looking round the lady’s room with an admiring gaze, “how quickly you have got things into working order here. When I remember that last year this place was a heap of rubbish, it seems like magic.”
“Ah! the work of God on earth seems magical the more we reflect on it,” returned the lady. “The fact that our Institute was conceived, planned, and carried into successful operation by an invalid lady, in spite of discouragement, and, at first, with inadequate means, is itself little short of miraculous, but what is even more surprising is the fact that the Government, which began by throwing cold water on her Portsmouth work, has ended by recognising it and by affording us every facility here in Alexandria.”
“Well, you see, madam, I suppose it’s because they see that we soldiers and sailors likes it, an’ it does a power o’ good—don’t you think?”
“No doubt, but whatever may be the reason, Sergeant, we are very thankful for the encouragement. I suppose you have heard what a grand occasion our opening day was?”
“No, madam, I haven’t. You see, away at Suakim we was so constantly taken up with the attentions of Osman Digna that we had little time for anything but eatin’ and sleepin’ when we wasn’t on sentry an’ fightin’, so that we often missed bits of news. Was there a great turn-out o’ men?”
“Indeed there was,” returned the lady, with animation; “and not only of men, but of all the Alexandrian notables. It was on the 23rd of February last (1885) that our Institute was opened by Major-General Lennox, V.C., C.B., who was in command of the garrison. This was not the first time by any means that the soldiers had paid us a visit. A number of men, who, like yourself, Sergeant Hardy, sympathise with our work in its spiritual aspects, had been frequently coming to see how we were getting on, and many a pleasant hour’s prayer and singing we had enjoyed with them, accompanied by our little harmonium, which had been sent to us by kind friends in England; and every Sunday evening we had had a little service in the midst of the shavings and carpenters’ benches.
“But on this grand opening day the men came down in hundreds, and a great surprise some of them got—especially the sceptical among them. The entrance was decorated with palms. At the further end of the reading-room the trophy of Union Jacks and the Royal Standard, which you see there now, was put up by a band of Jack-tars who had come to help us as well as to see the fun. Over the trophy was our text, ‘In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners,’ for we liked to feel that we had taken possession of this little spot in Egypt for God—and we believe that it will always be His.
“Everything was bright and hearty. There were about five hundred soldiers and sailors, and between two and three hundred officers and civilians of all nationalities. On the platform we had Osman Pasha—”
“Ha!” interrupted the sympathetic sergeant, “I only wish we could have had Osman Digna there too! It would do more to pacify the Soudan than killing his men does!”
“I daresay it would,” responded the lady with a laugh, “but have patience, Hardy; we shall have him there yet, and perhaps the Mahdi too—or some future grand occasion. Well, as I was saying, we had Osman, the Governor of Alexandria, on our platform, and a lot of big-wigs that you know nothing about, but whose influence was of importance, and whose appearance went far to make the place look gay. Of course we had music, beginning with ‘God save the Queen,’ and speeches—brilliant as well as heavy; sententious and comic—like all other similar gatherings, and the enthusiasm was unbounded. How could it be otherwise with sailors to cheer and soldiers to back them up? And you may be sure that in such a meeting the enthusiasm about the undertaking did not fail to extend to the ‘Soldiers’ Friend’ who had originated the whole. In short, it was a splendid success.”
“Of course it was,” said the sergeant, with emphasis; “first, because of God’s blessing, an’, second, because the Institoot was greatly needed. Why, madam, if it wasn’t for this place the thousands of soldiers stationed here, not to mention the sailors, would have no place to go to spend their leave and leisure time but the drinkin’ dens o’ the town; anyouknow well, though p’r’aps not so well as I do, what terrible places these are, where men are tempted, fleeced, debauched, and sometimes murdered.”
“Quite true, Hardy. Did you hear of the case that occurred just two days ago? A sergeant of one of the regiments, I forget which, after paying his fare to a donkey-boy, turned quietly to walk away, when the scoundrel felled him with a stick and robbed him of one pound 10 shillings. The case is before the law-court now, and no doubt the robber will receive a just reward.
“Well, as I was remarking, the opening day carried us to high tide, so to speak, and there has been no ebb from that day to this. One comical incident, however, occurred just at the beginning, which might have done us damage. The day after the opening all was prepared for the reception of our soldier and sailor friends. The tables were arranged with books and games, the writing-table with pens, ink, and blotting-paper, and the bar with all sorts of eatables, magnificent urns, coloured glass, etcetera. About one o’clock William, our barman, tasted the coffee. His usual expression of self-satisfaction gave place to one of horror. He tasted the coffee again. The look of horror deepened. He ran to the boiler, and the mystery was cleared up. The boiler had been filled with salt-water! Our Arab, Ibraim, who carries up seawater daily to fill our baths, had filled the boiler with the same. Luckily there was time to correct the mistake, and when our friends came trooping in at four o’clock they found the coffee quite to their taste.
“You know very well,” continued the superintendent, “our rules never to force religion on any of our customers, our object being toattractby all the legitimate means in our power. We have our Bible-classes, prayer-meetings, temperance soirees, and the like, distinct—as at Portsmouth—from the other advantages of the Institute; and are quite content if some, who come at first from mere curiosity or for the enjoyment of temporal good things, should afterwards continue to come from higher and spiritual motives. But if our military friends prefer to read our papers and books, and play our games, and use our bar, they are at perfect liberty to do so, without what I may style religious interference. It’s all fair and above-board, you see. We fully recognise the freedom of will that God has bestowed on man. If you don’t care for our spiritual fare you may let it alone. If you relish it—there it is, and you are welcome. Yet we hold by our right to win men if we can. In point of fact, we have been very successful already in this way, for our motive power from beginning to end is Love.
“One of our most helpful soldier friends—a sergeant—has brought several men to the Saviour, who are now our steady supporters. One of these men, whom our sergeant was the means of bringing in, was a professed unbeliever of good standing and ability. The first time he was prevailed on to come to a prayer-meeting, he sat bolt upright while we knelt, being a straightforward sort of man who refused to pretend when he could not really pray. He is now a happy follower of Jesus.
“Our large rooms are constantly filled with soldiers, some chatting, some making up for past privations by having a good English meal, and others reading or playing games. Just now happens to be our quietest hour, but it won’t be long before we have a bustling scene.”
As if to verify the lady’s words there came through the doorways at that moment a sound of shouting and cheering, which caused all the staff of the Institute to start into active life.
“There they come!” exclaimed the lady, with an intelligent smile, as she hurried from the room, leaving Hardy to follow at a pace that was more consistent with his dignity—and, we may add, his physical weakness.
The shouts proceeded from a party of sailors on leave from one of the ironclads lying in the harbour. These, being out for the day—on a spree as some of them styled it—had hired donkeys, and come in a body to the Institute, where they knew that food of the best, dressed in British fashion, and familiar games, were to be had, along with British cheer and sympathy.
When Hardy reached the door he found the place swarming with blue-jackets, trooping up at intervals on various animals, but none on foot, save those who had fallen off their mounts and were trying to get on again.
“They’re all donkeyfied together,” remarked a sarcastic old salt—not one of the party—who stood beside Hardy, looking complacently on, and smoking his pipe.
“They don’t steer as well on land as on sea,” replied Hardy.
“’Cause they ain’t used to such craft, you see—that’s w’ere it is, sarjint,” said the old salt, removing his pipe for a moment. “Just look at ’em—some comin’ along sidewise like crabs, others stern foremost. W’y, there’s that grey craft wi’ the broad little man holdin’ on to its tail to prevent his slidin’ over its head. I’ve watched that grey craft for some minutes, and its hind propellers have bin so often in the air that it do seem as if it was walkin’ upon its front legs. Hallo! I was sure he’d go down by the head at last.”
The donkey in question had indeed gone down by the head, and rolled over, pitching its rider on his broad shoulders, which, however, seemed none the worse for the fall.
“Ketch hold of his tail, Bill,” cried another man, “and hold his stern down—see if that won’t cure his plungin’. He’s like a Dutchman in a cross sea.”
“Keep clear o’ this fellow’s heels, Jack, he’s agoin’ to fire another broadside.”
“If he does he’ll unship you,” cried Jack, who was himself at the same moment unshipped, while the owner of the donkey, and of the other donkeys, shouted advice, if nothing worse, in Arabic and broken English.
In a few minutes the sailors “boarded” the Institute, and drew the whole force of the establishment to the bar in order to supply the demand.
“Ah! thin, ye’ve got Irish whisky, haven’t ye?” demanded a facetious seaman.
“Yes, plenty, but we call it coffee here!” answered the equally facetious barman, whose satellites were distributing hot and cold drinks with a degree of speed that could only be the fruit of much practice.
“You’ll have to be jolly on mild swipes,” said one; “no tostikatin’ liquors allowed, Dick.”
“H’m!” growled Dick.
“Got any wittles here?” demanded another man, wiping his lips with his sleeve.
“Yes, plenty. Sit down and order what you want.”
“For nothin’?” asked the tar.
“Fornextto nothing!” was the prompt reply. Meanwhile, those whose appetites were not quite so urgent had distributed themselves about the place, and were already busy with draughts, billiards, etcetera, while those who were of more sedate and inquiring temperament were deep in the columns of the English papers and magazines.
“I say, Fred Thorley, ain’t it bang up?” remarked a sturdy little man, through a huge slice of cake, with which he had just filled his mouth.
“Fuss-rate!” responded Fred, as he finished a cup of coffee at a draught and called for more. “Didn’t I tell you, Sam, that you’d like it better than the native grog-shops?”
“If they’d on’y got bitter beer!” sighed Sam.
“They’ve got better beer,” said his friend; “try some ginger-pop.”
“No thankee. If I can’t git it strong, let’s at least have it hot. But, I say, what’s come o’ the lobsters? Don’t seem to be many about. I thought this here Institoot was got up a-purpose forthem.
“So it was, lad, includin’ us; but you don’t suppose that becauseyouare out on the spree, everybody else is. They’re on dooty just now. Wait a bit an’ you’ll see plenty of ’em afore long.”
“Are all that come here Blue Lights?” asked Sam, with a somewhat doleful visage.
“By no manner o’ means,” returned his friend, with a laugh; “tho’ for the matter o’ that they wouldn’t be worse men if they was, but many of ’em are no better than they should be, an’ d’ee know, Sam, there are some of ’em actually as great blackguards a’most as yourself!”
“There’s some comfort in that anyhow,” returned Sam, with a pleasant smile, “for I hates to be pecooliar. By the way, Fred, p’r’aps they may be able to give you some noos here, if you ax ’em, about your friend Jack Molloy.Hewas a Blue Light, wasn’t he?”
“Not w’en I know’d ’im, but he was a fuss-rate seaman an’ a good friend, though hewasfond of his glass, like yourself, Sam.”
It chanced that at this point Sergeant Hardy, in moving about the place, taking profound interest in all that he saw, came within earshot of the two friends, to whom he at once went up and introduced himself as a friend of Jack Molloy.
“Indeed,” said he, “Molloy and I fought pretty near to each other in that last affair under General McNeill, so I can give you the latest news of him.”
“Can you, old man? Come, sit down here, an’ let’s have it then,” said Thorley. “Jack was an old messmate o’ mine. What’ll you take to drink, mate?”
“Nothing, thankee. I’m allowanced by the doctor even in the matter o’ tea and coffee,” said the sergeant. “As to bein’ an’ old man—well, I ain’t much older than yourself, I daresay, though wounds and sickness and physic are apt to age a man in looks.”
Sitting down beside the sailors, Hardy told of the great fight at McNeill’s zereba, and how Molloy and others of his friends had gone to rescue a comrade and been cut off. He relieved Fred’s mind, however, by taking the most hopeful view of the matter, as he had previously relieved the feelings of Marion. And then the three fell to chatting on things in general and the war in particular.
“Now don’t this feel homelike?” said Sam, looking round the room with great satisfaction. “If it wasn’t for the heat I’d a’most think we was in a temperance coffee-house in old England.”
“Or owld Ireland,” chimed in a sailor at the neighbouring table.
“To say naething o’ auld Scotland,” added a rugged man in red hair, who sat beside him.
“Well, messmate,” assented Fred, “itdofeel homelike, an’ no mistake. Why, what ever isthat?”
The sailor paused, and held up a finger as if to impose silence while he listened, but there was no need to enforce silence, for at that moment the sweet strains of a harmonium were heard at the other end of the long room, and quietude profound descended on the company as a rich baritone voice sang, with wonderful pathos, the familiar notes and words of “Home, Sweet Home!”
Before that song was finished many a warrior there had to fight desperately with his own spirit to conceal the fact that his eyes were full of tears. Indeed, not a few of them refused to fight at all, but, ingloriously lowering their colours, allowed the tell-tale drops to course over their bronzed faces, as they thought of sweethearts and wives and friends and home circles and “the light of other days.”